Katana

Denial swept across everyone who stood there, especially the girl near the front.

There was a man she had loved.

He was strong, hiding his pain and seeking only to protect those dear to him.

He was suffering, though, as she knew as much as anyone else. Tuberculosis had changed his life in an abysmal way.

He was kind, smiling often and teasing. Even his threats eventually came to be an inside joke of sorts.

He was embarrassing, that's for sure. He made comments just for the sake of amusing himself by watching the person's reaction.

The sun that day shone more vividly as ever, gleaming across the bloody katana.

There was a cloth tied around it.

He couldn't even hold a sword on his own.

He was smiling, she was sure, as he always did in a fight. The attempt at a grin was probably even weaker than the sad, make-believe ones he made when he was coughing up blood.

Yet he still fought.

This time is wasn't for the exhilaration.

This time it wasn't for the feeling of adrenaline coursing through his veins.

This time it wasn't for the unpredictability.

It was completely predictable.

He knew he would die.

But he fought anyway. For those he knew he would leave behind.

And all that's left of him now is a katana and a bandage wrapped around it.

All that's left are a weapon and blood.

Just like what would be left after every battle.