What better sound is there, besides that of sharpening a blade?
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Running the whetstone along the edge of my blade at an angle, I'm soothed by the familiar ziiiiiing, ziiiiiing.
Even sitting in a dirty kimono out in the rain, this familiar sound brings peace to my soul, and a stillness to my heart. I know not why I love this sound so much, but I have always been calmest when sharpening my katana. Perhaps it is because every night when I was little, our master would run his whetstone over his own blade while me and my fellow orphans were laying down to sleep. But perhaps that is simply because I feel the need to have a psychological connection to our master. It is very common in patients that have suffered trauma to encourage themselves with false memories. Some do this by finding a habit, while others are comforted by voices.
I wish I had a voice. Sadly, I am too cynical to listen to a so-called "higher being" even if I heard one.
Is that all I am? A victim of trauma?
No, I am not a victim. The proof of that is the burning orphanage behind me, and the fact that my screaming fellows have gone silent. If I were truly a victim, I would not be alive currently. A pity, that I am so intelligent. My master always said it would get me into trouble some day, having this big brain of mine.
The trouble is that I had realized the ceiling was going to collapse, and followed the logical course of displacing myself from the area of danger, before turning and calling back inside to help others. It is only logical that you can not help others until you yourself are in a position to do so. At least, that is how I think.
I wish my master followed this same logic. When the ronin came looking for a fight, my master gave them one. When they returned looking to give a beating, he took it.
When they came looking to kill a couple worthless orphans, he was the one who ate the blade.
I should be grateful that he made that sacrifice, and yet I am feeling angry against my better judgment. I remember thinking selfish thoughts as his head rolled on the floor, such as "Why couldn't you let me take the blade?" or "How can you be so stupid as to get yourself killed over us useless children?"
The one I asked myself over and over again, was "Why did you leave me?"
Not "us" as in my fellows and I, but rather "me." I have concluded that I am a selfish person. To think I am so rude as to doubt my master's judgment, and suggest an alternative. I have also concluded that I am impolite. Such is the way of us children, to be selfish and rude. Still, even though our master knew of this, he still kept us around. When I asked why he did such a troublesome thing, he said, "Because I'm an old man, and I never did get married, so I never got grandchildren. What else could an old man do but find something to occupy his time until it ends?"
He was always talking that way. For some reason, the other children never seemed to grasp his full meaning. Perhaps that was why he spoke so in-depth with me about the various facets of our world. He didn't have anyone else to discuss it with. Though, I believe this is my childish pride talking, as well as my traumatized mind, trying to find a bond to hold with my master. Once again, I have concluded that I am arrogant.
Still, I did have a bond with our master. During the day, when I had tired of doing senseless things such as running around in a circle until my legs wouldn't hold me up, as all children do, I would quietly watch our master. Watch him swing a piece of metal around, which at first seemed as senseless as what I had previously been occupied with. Until he showed me the beauty involved with it.
It started with a simple swing, just a basic strike from the shoulder to hip. However, I couldn't seem to do it the same as our master. No matter how I adjusted my feet and hands, or how I distributed my weight, I simply could not make that piece of metal move in the way I wished. When I asked my master what I was doing wrong, he said "You are not doing anything wrong. You are just doing it differently. Let me show you." He then took a piece of bamboo, and cut it diagonally. Then he motioned me over, and told me to cut another stick of bamboo. I complied, and saw that our cuts were indeed different. I once again asked my master what I was doing wrong, and he replied with "What you are doing wrong, is doubting yourself. This time, strike the way you think it should be done."
I have concluded that I am quite dense on the subject of individuality, as I would soon learn this was called. No matter how much the master requested I cut the way I wish to, I would still insist on him showing me. I felt that if I could copy him exactly, perhaps I could do it the way he does. Laughing, he told me that until I found my own way of thinking, he could not teach me anything. Such a particular old man.
From then on, whenever I came to watch, he would always stop, set down his sword, and leave. He would then "Forget" To turn off the light and put away the sword, and toss the key to the equipment closet over his shoulder, as if on accident. He would then complain about his until-then non-existent back problems, and leave without cleaning up. Because it would take someone of indescribable idiocy to not pick up the hint he was giving, I decided to play along. I have concluded that I am cynical, and unforgiving of those who are mentally challenged.
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At first, I played the same game as I had before, spinning around with the sword in my hand until I couldn't stand any longer. After I nearly beheaded myself, I decided to take things slower. After all, I am just a child. Then, I would try to emulate what my master did. After three-four months of doing my best to copy my master, I began to feel strange. I would feel the need to adjust my blade just a little higher than he did, point the tip just little to the right, set my feet just a little closer. I have concluded that I am more arrogant than I had previously assumed.
One day, I did not come to watch him, but rather I did not leave the dojo. Instead, I simply kneeled with the sword on my lap, and contemplated our master's words. I have concluded that I am lazy, as I did not take this time to practice. Then, after having sat in silence all through the dark hours, I rose to my feet with the sun.
Then I started practicing for real.
Never before have I felt as tired, as physically and mentally fatigued, as I did at that time. I am, after all, just a child. Children do not stay up all night. At least, not us smart ones. Even so, I pressed on. After struggling, after pushing myself, threatening myself, shaming myself, and doing anything to get my body to move, I found out something.
Collapsing on the floor with your whole body tied in knots is painful, just a little. After that, no matter how I threatened or screamed at myself, I could not move. Still determined to be a pain, I remained awake. That is, until my master came in, called me an idiot, and suffocated me until I passed out. I have concluded that I am stubborn.
After recovering, I once again went to the dojo, determined to find my way. That is when I found my master waiting for me. He did not leave, nor did he leave the sword behind. Instead, he waited on his knees with the sword held out on two hands, his head bowed. He then spoke in his soft voice, laced even thicker with humility than usual, "I apologize for leaving you on your own, and not helping when you needed me. If you wish, I will teach you all that I know, as long as you promise to uphold the rules of Bushido."
I stood frozen for a full minute. I have concluded that I am rather slow.
However, instead of accepting his offer, I did something rather selfish. I walked over to a bamboo stick, and replied "Thank you, but I believe I am a better teacher." I have concluded that I am very bad at being obedient.
Taking a bamboo stick, I then proceeded to practice. However, I was not alone.
Our-no, my master stood beside me, and kept me company. I think he was alone during his training. I was lonely while I trained, as well. Perhaps this is what he truly wanted. Not someone who respected him, nor someone who was polite.
I think, just like me, he was looking for a friend. I have concluded that I like having a friend.
Still, as with all things, the good must end.
For me, the moment a sword severed my masters' neck was when it ended. I have concluded that screaming is useless.
When the ronin decided killing us all one by one would be too troublesome, and set the building on fire, I concluded that asking for help is useless.
When I left my companions behind, even if it was unintentional, I concluded that I am a terrible person.
When the ronin surrounded me, and discussed the best way to kill me, I concluded that every human, besides my master, is not worthy to breathe the same air as he did.
When I unsheathed my katana, and did to them what they did to my master I discovered something.
I concluded that the sound of blood splattering across the ground is very soothing. More soothing than sharpening my blade.
I can not wait to hear that angelic noise once more, but until then-I will have to make due with the ziiiiing, ziiiiiiing. of my whetstone on blade.
After all, cutting is so much easier with a sharp blade.
I have concluded that I am rather vengeful, and even more unforgiving.
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The sound of a life ending is.
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Well, it took this long to add the prologue. Who knows how long until the first chapter.
I'm thinking maybe a year or two, maybe wait a decade.
...
Hah! I had you fooled, didn't I? Well, this will probably be my main project right now. After all, I can't think of how to proceed in my other stories. ignoring problems until they go away! FTW!
...god, if you are out there, please, just kill me now...