Empty. I feel so terribly empty.
The well wishers keep coming, bringing food and words of sympathy,
while I sit here, pretending I'm my father-in-law, wishing they'd all
just leave me alone. The worst part is that occasionally I catch a
peek of something else in their eyes. Opportunism. I'm a good
looking man, if I say so myself, and being a martial artist has a
certain cachet to it in this community. Some of them aren't terribly
good at concealing their interest in "comforting" me, and some are
quite deliberately obvious about it.
They disgust me.
There was only ever one woman for me even if it took a while for me to figure out what was in my own heart. And now that my heart is dead, they circle it like carrion crows. I should drive them out, but that would be impolite and undignified, and I am no longer the juvenile lout trailing mayhem behind me that I once was.
Those were the days.
If there's anyone I'd like to see right now, it would have to be my best friend and rival from those days. Have a brawl for old times sake. Of course with the way he aimlessly wanders the country, it will probably be years before he even hears about what has happened.
Just as well he isn't around.
It's not like the old days. I can't go off on spur-of-the-moment
training trips or brawl in the streets. I have responsibilities.
I have children who need me. And yet I sit here, doing nothing
at all to help them because I can't think of anything to do or
say that might help them get through this any more than my
neighbours can think of anything that can help me.
My children whisper behind me.
"Is papa all right?"
"Of course he isn't all right! Don't be stupid!"
"Don't call me stupid!"
My eldest tries in vain to make peace between her quarreling sisters until I turn on them. I'm not sure what my face looks like, but all three of them turn white as I order them to stop and scold them in their mother's name.
I'm too rough on them. All three of them are crying as they go upstairs. I want to apologise, but I don't know how. I need to clear my head, release some of the anger inside me, so I go out to the dojo.
After demolishing every lump of concrete and sparring dummy, that burst of fire inside me is nothing more than damp ash. I feel bone tired and sit down leaning against the wall to close my eyes for a while.
When I wake up, I feel strangely relaxed. Someone has cleaned up the debris of my tantrum for me, and I go inside, to stop dead in amazement.
She's there! My wife is making supper! It's impossible,
but as I dash forward she's alive in my arms!
She laughs and protests, "Hey! Easy there, I'm breakable you know."
"You've come back to me!"
She steps back in confusion, "What are you talking about?
What's wrong?"
"You...you were dead! I remember you dying!"
"Are you all right?"
I shake my head. "Everything's fine now. But it was so real!"
She thoughtfully considers that, and says, "Well, you know,
sometimes it can be hard to tell the difference between reality
and a dream."
Then of course, I really wake up, and for the first time since my wife died, I begin to cry.