あなたのほろ苦い味
your bittersweet flavor
The first time I met him was when I was four. The man running through the crowded streets of harajuku, sweat running down his flushed face, his pink hair twinkling in the afternoon light. People cursed at him as he ran by, his tired voice repeating "gomenisai" over and over. A dark haired girl streaked behind him, a cynical sneer plastered on her face. Her bright green eyes narrowed at the mans back, analyzing. Was it a dream, no, it was too real, to crushing to be a mere dream. Tears stung my childish eyes, as I realized what I saw in the slow motion scene, this man, a complete stranger, his beautiful features twisted in pain, as the woman thrusted the weapon she had drawn from her pocket, a small knife, into his left side. Right below his shoulder blade. His mouth opens revealing a trickle of red that dribbled down his chin, the color blending into the scarlet sweater he wore. He crashed into the ground, as screams were shared. Blood splattered everywhere as his head connected with the pavement. And there I stood, covered in his warm blood, my tears cutting through the red droplets on my face, my mother shaking me, trying to get my attention. The police came around the corner and captured the laughing woman, a emotion I now realize is sorrow hidden in her sparkling green eyes. I ran up and clutched the body, as my mother screams behind me, a dark red gore now coats my body , I whisper to the man "she did not deserve you" my small stubby fingers combed through his now sticky dark colored hair. I just sat there as I received horrified glares from the people around me, and terrified pleading from my mother. I was pried off the man.
The image of his broken body forever is burned into my corrupted mind.