The heat of the noon sun seems even more stifling today. Sweat pours down my grimy body and mixes with the murky water of the Japanese paddy fields that remind me of tar. My puckered hands grope through for the offending weeds, which threaten the life of the rice stalks. Wrestling with these sharp weeds would leave my hands scarred and torn. I ignore my back pains from spending so many hours bent over without rest, but I dare not pause with him so close by, not even for a moment...
I feel Slavemaster Junkei’s piggish eyes watching my every movement, the four foot long bamboo rod rested flat across his arm with a threatening air. Junkei, the man who says he only has eyes for me. How flattering…
I relax when he leaves my side to reprimand a flat-footed boy notorious for his constant clumsiness. I do not wince when I hear the familiar sound of Junkei exercising his bamboo rod across the boy’s back. I am too used to the sound and feel of it to outwardly sympathize. Rather, I am mildly surprised instead because I did not expected Junkei to beat him for such a minor offense such as tripping; this means he is in a bad mood.
I remember when, a year ago, Junkei was punishing an old woman- he almost beat her to death. The dusky sky had been true to its name; the clouds were as gray as my eyes and the sky itself a shadowy blend of purple signaling the oncoming night. The woman’s crime had been the spillage of Junkei’s dinner but the others said it was just an excuse for the woman had stung Junkei's pride and fled from his room one night. I stood protectively over her and shouted at him to stop just as he was about to administer what could have been the fatal blow to her bleeding body. Everyone was sure that Junkei would kill me in his rage. I would not have been the first nor the last. Instead a smirk broke over his pug face after his surprise faded.
“You will come to my room tonight,” he had snarled and flung me beside the young woman's still form.
Later that night he made me wear a pretty, red silk kimono with a flame-print to his room…and I received my punishment. After that I never dared to shout at Junkei again, in fact I hardly spoke at all. Instead of declining, the nightly punishments increased and with it my silence and withdrawal.
I release a painful cry as a beefy hand tightly grips my long ponytail and pulls me roughly upright. He pulls on it so hard that my roots begin to scream and my feet are barely touching the wretched ground I had detested moments earlier. I do not struggle despite my tearing eyes and burning scalp. I had learned it was better not to fight.
“Useless girl,” he shakes me like a dog with a rat. “Did I say you could pause in your work?”
“I’m sorry Master,” I lie contemptuously.
I feel his sharp eyes piercing my skull. Even though he had no reason to start believing I was not a sorry creature under his foot, with his trunk-like torso, strong calves and sinewy arms, and bamboo rod, I shouldn’t have used that tone.
He suddenly lets go of my hair and I, not expecting this wordless release, sank heavily into the murky water on all fours.
“Wear the red kimono tonight,” he snarls. In a very bad mood.
I had come to dread the colour red. It spoke of burning passion to others; to me it was also bold fear and bleeding life moments before brightened death.
My body stiffens when I feel his foot on my bottom. Would he shame me here infront of so many? But he only does so to roughly shove me forward, face first into the warm, diluted tar. When I resurface the water that I had almost inhaled is running down my nose and ears and feels sticky on my face. If I had just drowned they would simply move my body before it began to rot in the summer heat and infect the rice field. It doesn’t matter if I had almost died. Slaves were easily and readily replaced and were destined to be forgotten.
That night as I donned the kimono, a girl my age pulls my hair out of its ponytail. I wince as she runs her hand through the knots in my hair then proceeds to tie it back up with a matching ribbon. She was sixteen years old and an inch and a half taller than me. She only answered to ‘Bee’. Her long hair was braided and ended sharply just at her mid-back in a straight line like a stinger. I knew for a fact that her name was ‘Hana’, which meant ‘flower’. Her eyes were dark ponds that seemed to have no bottom and the darkness swirled incessantly in a whirlpool of harsh memories.
“You must love the feel of the bamboo across your back,” she murmurs. “You should not have provoked him so. It's so unlike you.”
I give a low, hollow laugh, “Junkei realizes that if he beats me enough I won’t be able to work, or meet his needs. If he loves me as much as he claims he should kill me.”
“It’s because even though you are silent you have defiance in your eyes,” she ran her hand through the knots in my red hair, “You’re a better man than Junkei any day. He’s a twisted, gender-confused fool.”
“According to Junkei I am a skinny girl with devil hair. Hair that my foreign father gave me,” she looks away as I continue. “But that all ends tonight…tonight is our special night as it will be his last.”
I draw the tanto from the folds of my obi sash and easily slip in back into concealment. She nods in understanding. Without thinking I press my lips against hers then after counting to ten, I pull away just as abruptly. She smiles slowly and awkwardly as we both feel our cheeks heat up. I don’t think she had ever been kissed by a boy.
“I’ll come back for you,” I promise.
“I know,” she replies simply.
I enter Junkei’s room. And this time, I penetrated him. I had personally customized the knife; it was extremely thin and exceedingly sharp. As he pulls off my sash greedily I distract him with a truly rare sight; I smile. I draw out the knife, I see red for a moment, and plunge it from tip to the hilt, under a rib and into his heart and he topples backwards with his eyes open wide and lands heavily on the polished wooden floor like a felled tree. I stand there, in my red kimono and my red hair hanging over my shoulders staring at my bloodied fingers. Devil-hair, I think to myself. I bring out another blade and saw off my ponytail that used to end mid-back. I lay it over his chest and pour lamp oil over the room. I decide to give to him a parting gift that he did not deserve. As I leave the room I fling a lit match in the room and the flames spring forth. Junkei’s heart was cold; so I decided to warm it.
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