A Light Among Shadows
"So how are you sleeping?" Allen was caught by surprise. Why would a juvenile correction councilor ask such as random a question? Allen's eyes shot back and forth in confusion.
"…good…" The word stretched hesitantly from his lips.
"No nightmares? Cold sweats?" Ah, Allen thought, the question does have some kind of point. "No, none," Allen retorted. The councilor gazed at Allen skeptically, but his degree in psychology and human behavior told him that the look in Allen's eyes was genuine honesty.
"Strange. When I worked at the prison all those years, every murderer-" Allen cut him off with a glare and the words, "I murdered no one, but I do not deny that I took a man's life."
"Forgive me. Every inmate I had spoken to that had killed someone had reported trouble sleeping. I'm wondering why you are so different."
"I can tell you. They have trouble sleeping because they are ashamed of what they have done. Deep down inside, whether they admit it or not, they regret their decision and are disgraced."
"And you are not?" Allen laughed inwardly at the stereotypical psychiatrist question. He shook his head and eliminated the middleman by saying, "No, and let me tell you why." The shrink's eyes showed mild relief at not having to ask one of many repetitive questions.
"I am not ashamed of myself or my action because I did what my morals told me was right. I follow Bushido, so I had to avenge my brother's killing. Did you hear about what happened to him?" The councilor shook his head no.
"He was walking home from school when he took his usual shortcut behind the town Wal-Mart. Behind the Wal-Mart, a man grabbed his shoulder and asked him to help sell drugs. My brother was 13, and he was smart so he tried to leave. The dealer wouldn't take no for an answer. He tied my brother to a chair behind the store and used a switchblade to make a tiny little cut on each side of my brother's neck, barely larger than a paper cut and just enough to draw blood.
I got home from wrestling practice around seven, and nobody was home. My mother, I knew, was working late at the fire station and my dad was out of town. I figured Steve, my brother, had gone to get pizza with one of his friends.
At ten-thirty, I called all my brother's friends and nobody had heard from him. Several had tried to call him all afternoon but he was never there. I got in my car and drove around our little town for an hour. I didn't find any traces of him at any of the stores. I drove up to the school and used a flashlight to walk down the path he takes, the one I showed him before I got a car. I knew he cut behind Wal-Mart, so I checked back there.
I found him tied to a chair, dead as a rock. Steve had hemophilia, so those tiny little cuts caused him to slowly bleed to death. Lying next to him was a small ziplock bag with cocaine inside. It didn't take long to figure out who did it. In our tiny town, there was only one drug dealer, and I knew not only who he was, but where he lived.
My role models are the Samurai, and they believe that murder and injustice should be avenged. My step-uncle was of Japanese heritage, and his only family heirloom was his ancestor's swords, actual Samurai blades that had been used gloriously in battle. When he died, he left them to me. I saw it as a great honor, for a Samurai believed that his swords were his soul. If he ever lost his sword, among other things, a Samurai would commit seppuku. Do you know what that is?" A nod.
"Anyway, I have the swords proudly hanging on my bedroom wall. I took them down and tied them around my waist, as they were meant to be adorned. I then left and paid a visit to the man's house. I knocked on his door and told him I was there in regards to his 'career'. Being sixteen, he assumed that I wanted to buy from him, so he didn't care about the swords at my side. He gleefully closed the door and I asked him to sit down. I threw the bag of coke on the coffee table and asked him 'is this yours?' He leapt up and thanked me. He asked what he could do to repay me, and I told him, 'you can start by giving my brother's life back, you bastard.' His eyes widened in fear and he turned to run.
I saw the tendons in his leg snap like rubber bands as the blade cut swiftly through the flesh behind his knee. He crashed onto the floor and began to plead for his life.
'You know what?' I asked him, "I'll bet my brother asked the same thing today, only he deserved to be spared. I can feel my brother watching me now, and I know that he shall be at peace.' With that, I dropped the sword through his chest and into the floor. I feel no remorse or guilt. I called the police right there and told them what I had done. Next thing I know, I'm here with you."
"No fancy court case?" The councilor was actually interested in his subject for the first time in years. He had grown tired of the repetitive mass murderers, drugees, and wife-beaters that he usually dealt with.
"I have not the time to tell you. As soon as I am done here, my dear sir, I am gathering my things and going home, and my mother wants me home as soon as possible. If you're wondering why I'm not on death row, then find a newspaper from last year and start looking. It won't take you long to find it."
That being said, Allen dismissed himself and prepared to go home.
Allen had been home for a week and nothing was as he had hoped. His family, though excited at first, had lost their zeal of welcoming by the third day and had since been regarding him with suspicion. For what, he did not know. He did, however, begin to reflect upon his life and his actions, and what he realized pained him immensely.
Allen's shame became a tangible load. He could literally feel this shame pushing down on his shoulders and his back, gnawing at his innards like the eagle did to Prometheus in Greek mythology. Allen's shame came from three things.
Allen's first disgrace happened shortly before his brother's death. His best friend, a girl about his age named Anne, had become more than a friend to him. He told her and found out that she had feelings for him also. They struggled to maintain only a friendship, for she was 15 and was had another year before her parents let her date. One day while talking after school, Allen had kissed her before he could stop himself. He pulled away hastily, apologized, and left. They remained friends, but there was a barrier of awkwardness that neither could ignore.
The second shame was Steve's death. Before he had a car, Allen had walked home with his brother after school. Allen had showed him the best way to get home, and that included cutting behind Wal-Mart. He and his brother hadn't grown up close, but they had been bonding strongly in the past year. Allen truly felt that, ultimately, he had killed his brother.
Finally, Allen had disgraced his family name. He knew that his family received ridicule and grief for what he had done, and to disgrace one's family was one of the worst things a Samurai could do. A Samurai disgraced would do what Allen was considering.
When his honor was lost, a Samurai would perform hara-kiri, better known as seppuku. Seppuku was performed by thrusting a blade into one's belly. If possible, a trusted friend or kinsman would behead the victim when he felt that the Samurai had endured enough pain. If performed alone, one would stab himself unto the base of the blade and cut his innards horizontally as many times as he could before dying. A truly strong and noble Samurai could slice his bowels three times. Committing seppuku was considered a way to die with whatever honor you had left and gain a little more upon death.
Allen was disgraced beyond his life. He looked up at the three blades displayed on his bedroom wall, thinking. He grabbed the weapons and tied the larger two, the long katana and short wakizashi, around his waist in the style they were to be fastened. He unsheathed the shortest, the tanto, and placed it on the floor before him. He unbuttoned his shirt and knelt, making one last contemplation of his life.
The blade easily penetrated flesh and delicate tissue, and Allen made only a grunt as he felt his own blood flow down his knees and stain the carpet. He willed himself to continue cutting, so he did. He made a complete incision across his entire belly and removed the blade, only to thrust it in a little higher and proceed with the cutting. The pain lasted only a second, for then he didn't care. The temperature around him dropped, and Allen could feel his mind begin to flit away. He saw his brother's face smiling and Allen could hear Steve's voice utter, "Thank you, my brother." Allen smiled briefly at his brother's thanks. Allen's heart was lifted with honor and he felt his shoulders lighten as his shame was removed from him. Allen had made it through two and a half cuts before he passed.
Allen Johnston had lived with more honor than almost anybody of his time, and he died with more honor than he had ever lived with.