Tragedy


His mangled body stood before him. Feathers and all. Blood dripped from his corpse as his eyes stared at some distant paradise that would never come. The panda picked him up. Blood stained his white and black fur. "Baba," He muttered tearfully. The goose never replied back. He had not the heart to remove the arrow that pierced the goose's chest.

I love you, son.

Those were his last words.

"I'm sorry, dad. I'm... I'm so sorry," The panda whimpered. There was no reply.

There would never ever be a reply again.

What a cruel world we live in.

As the panda carefully closed his father's lifeless eyes he-

Po stopped and glared at the piece of parchment. He redipped the quill into the inkwell and hovered over the paper.

No words came out. He planted the quill back into the well and stared at the paper. "Ugh, this isn't right," Po muttered to himself. "Why isn't it right?" Grunting again, Po got up from the paper and left his room. Grabbing a bit to eat from the barracks' kitchen, he munched on an apple while his mindless feet walked towards the courtyard, where Crane and Tigress were training. "It... it just doesn't feel right."

"Po?"

"Why doesn't it feel right?"

"Po!"

"Huh?" Po stopped before stepping on a sharp knife on the ground. "Whoa. Gotta watch where I'm going. Thanks, guys."

"No problem. Though you're not normally that unaware. What's wrong," Crane asked. Po fiddled with the apple in his hand before rubbing the back of his head with the other.

"It's nothing really."

"Po, you nearly stepped on a sharp object," Tigress pointed out.

"I'm clumsy?"

"Po, you looked like you were thinking about something. What was it?" Tigress asked. Po glanced between the two warriors and sighed. Taking one more bite of the apple, Po chucked the core over the courtyard wall, giving another sigh.

"I... I was trying to write about my... dad's death."

Crane and Tigress's eyes widened. They glanced at each other. Crane shrugged with an awkward speechless confusion in his eyes and shoulders. Tigress slowly stared at the panda's face. He was waiting for their response, though it was taking much longer than he originally thought.

"I'm... sorry, Po. But... you're father isn't dead."

Po actually chuckled, "I know that. It's just... You remember that last mission we had?"

"The one where the child had to kill his own father in order to save the village from the father's underground coup?" Crane rattled off. "Yeah, why?"

"It just... it made me realize that my dad is going to die one day."

"Death does come for us all," Tigress replied.

"No, I mean... his chances of getting killed or murdered because of me are higher than normal," Po explained, sighing. "When I first thought about it, it made me realize that I needed a way to protect my dad at all costs, but... when I talked with Shifu about it, he made me realize that I can't save my dad from everything. Or anything." Po's shoulders sagged. "It's just... I can do all of this amazing stuff as Dragon Warrior, but I can't stop anyone from... dying. Even with Chi."

"I'm... sorry, Po," Tigress said sadly. "I know coming to that realization is... hard."

Po dismissively waved his hand. "It's... not really the 'ah ha' moment. It's just... I realized that if I can't stop my dad from dying, I should find a way to accept that fact better."

"Hence... the writing about your dad's... future death?" Crane said slowly. "I'm sorry, I'm still confused about all of this."

"It sounds like Po's trying to use a story to figure out how to cope with a fear that he has. He's trying to face his fear by writing it out."

"Yeah... I guess that's one way of saying it," Po replied.

"I've heard of masters writing their way into enlightenment or recovery after a traumatic event," Tigress said. "Has it been helping?"

"It has, but... there's just a part that makes it difficult. The death part."

"Why?"

"I... I don't know. I mean, it just feels like I'm holding back. Like I don't want to go there," Po sighed. "And it made me wonder, why do we include traumatic scenes anyway? I mean, why do we like tragedies?"

Crane and Tigress looked at each other. They couldn't say anything for a moment.

Then Tigress finally said, "Maybe because we see ourselves in the characters. Maybe seeing them go through the trauma will help us with our own."

"Not if the character isn't going through the same thing that we're going through," Crane rebutted, "I mean, someone's father dying is different from breaking up with someone."

Then a candle sparked in Po's brain. "Crane, didn't your dad die?"

"Po. That might be a sensitive topic," Tigress urged.

"No, no, it's fine, Tigress," Crane smiled. "Yes, my father died when I was younger."

"What was it like for you?" Po asked.

"Hard. It's... hard to really describe. Like... Like a piece of you just left you. You always complain about your breath leaving you when Tigress punches you extra hard, right?"

"Yeah," Po muttered, glaring at a smirking tiger.

"It's like... a part of your breath is gone, but it never returns. It's an ache, I guess. You just wish the ache would leave."

"Does it?"

"It... lessens. But it never leaves," Crane sighed. He felt Po's hand gently rest on his shoulder.

"I'm sorry."

Crane sighed, "That's the other thing. Words from other people can fall on deaf ears. You can't replace the pain with a voice. Grieving is something you do. Not something you speak out of existence."

"Whoa, I never thought about it like that," Po said.

"But," Tigress spoke up, "It also helps not to focus too much on the time ahead. No one can predict the future. Worrying too much about it can blind you to what's in front of you. You already know what it was like for Master Shifu to focus on the past."

"Why are you telling me that?" Po asked.

Tigress crossed her arms and sighed, "Po, I don't want you to be so focused on the dangers of the future that you aren't grateful for the time you have right now. You remember what Master Oogway told you."

"Today is a gift; that's why it's called the present," Po sighed and then threw his hands up in frustration. "But that doesn't help me. Why can't I write this part of the death scene right?"

Crane and Tigress glanced at each other and shrugged. Po groaned. "Thank you, guys. I really appreciate it. I just... I think I need some space." Po walked down the Jade Palace steps with a bigger frown than he entered.

"Do you think he'll figure it out?" Crane asked.

"I think he will. Once he faces what he's afraid of," Tigress said.

"What's that?"

Tigress shrugged and watched the panda descend into the village below.

Po's feet walked passed familiar vistas and buildings. Picturesque and cozy houses passed on either side until he came to a circular entrance so familiar that he could walk into it blindfolded.

He actually tried one time.

The shop was slowly closing. The last customer was about to leave through the entrance when Po came in. "Ah! Po, just in time for clean up. Don't worry about your prized mop, I'll get you a different one."

"Oh thanks dad, but... uh... I actually wanted to talk to you about something," Po said.

"What's that?" Mr. Ping asked.

"Uhhh... how do I say this?" Po wondered as he sat in front of the kitchen counter. "Uhhh... how did you... get through your dad's death."

Mr. Ping stopped. His bill dropped. "Is... Li-Shan dead?"

"What?! No, no, no."

"Oh," Mr. Ping groaned.

"Did you want him to die?!" Po exclaimed.

"No, no! It's just... I was hoping to rent out his room."

Po rolled his eyes. "Dad, I'm talking about your dad. What did you do when he died?"

"Oh! Oh," Mr. Ping sighed. He stopped midway in his walk and looked straight at the panda. "Po, why do you want to know?"

"Nothing."

"Po."

"It's just... remember that mission I told you about recently?"

"Ah, yes, yes. So sad."

"I... I just realized that you're at a high risk of getting hurt... and... I can't prevent you from dying... so I... tried to write about it to... accept it when it happens and... and," Po's eyes watered. He wiped them away. "I'm sorry. I don't know why I'm crying."

"Po, just tell me what's wrong?"

"It's all wrong," Po cried out, still wiping his eyes. "It's all wrong. It's not... it's not right."

"What's not right?"

"I can't write the stupid death scene. Why?!" Po slammed his head onto the counter. "Why can't I write it!?"

"Can't? Or don't want to?"

Po rose his head up. "Huh?"

"Po, maybe the piece is hard to write because you don't want to go through that pain. You don't want to go through it again," Mr. Ping said. "When my father died, I didn't want to talk about it at all. Not talking about it didn't help. It only made things worse. It was like a kettle on fire with no way for the steam to escape. I still remember blowing up at my sister and bursting into tears when I was cutting the onions."

"Didn't you tell her it was the onions?" Po asked.

"Ah, I was just saying that so I would seem tough," Mr. Ping chuckled, "A man has to protect his pride."

"Uh... I don't think-"

"Anyway," Mr. Ping interrupted, "Writing about this is hard. You don't want to go through that pain because it hurts a lot. That's probably why you're dodging around it."

"But how do I fix that?" Po asked.

"Simple. Go through it." Po's eyes widened. "The only way you're going to get better at this is to go through it. It will be hard, and you may even cry while you write it out, but once it is done, something tells me that you'll feel much lighter and better that you were as honest as you could be."

Po's stunned face slowly morphed into a small smile. "Thank you, Dad."

"Now, help me with these floors. And since you're plotting my death, you might as well read over my will."

"Dad."

"No butts young mister," Mr. Ping said sternly. Po shook his head, but he couldn't hide his smile.

Later on that night, Po sat back down at his desk and wrote again.

His mangled body stood before him. Feathers and all. Blood dripped from his corpse as his eyes stared at some distant paradise that would never come. The panda picked him up. Blood stained his white and black fur. "Baba," He muttered tearfully. The goose never replied back. The panda's eyes cried, dripping down to the goose's frame. He had not the heart to remove the arrow that pierced the goose's chest.

I love you, son.

Those were his last words.

"I'm sorry, Baba. I'm...," The panda whimpered. There was no reply.

There would never be a reply again.

His breathing hitched. The panda's gasps and cries echoed against the thundering rain. Screaming to the heavens, he wailed for the gods above to remove the mask of death around his father. But the gods would never listen to a mortal.

"I'm sorry," He cried. "I couldn't... I didn't..." Yet the voice in his head told him that it wasn't his fault. Just like his father would say. As the heat from the goose's body left, the panda stood up and carried him through the rain.

The burial was short and sweet. Several friends came to give condolences. Most said kind words. Nearly all gave hugs. Few wept with him. Those were the ones that felt better.

He returned to the house. It was quiet. Too quiet.

Never in his life had that house been quiet.

It was always filled with noise, bad singing, laughter, and love.

So much love.

So much of that love was gone in such a beautifully short instance.

He was gone.

And yet, some part of the panda's heart and soul knew that his father would always be with him.

He would see him again.

And they would laugh over noodles as they always had.

"I... I love you, dad," Po sniffled up. He cried. Water leaked onto the paper. The ink ran runny.

It wasn't until seconds after that he realized someone had moved the paper. Po looked up and saw Tigress resting a hand on his shoulder with a smile that knew the pain he had just gone through. "It's finished," Po sighed.

"Then let it be finished," Tigress said. Po nodded and blew out the candle. "Po, how do you feel?"

He took a moment. He wanted to take such a long moment. His pain slowly grew into a single point as his smile spread across his face.

"Lighter," Po smiled. "So much lighter."

Tigress smiled back, "I'm glad."

The End

A/N: Before you ask, yes I'm fine. No, this isn't because of my own family life. This is actually based on a question that I kind of answered myself. "Why do we love traumatic scenes and tragedy?" I don't think I fully answered it, but I feel satisfied with the answer given. What do you think?