Hell is noise. It is a cacaphony of vicious sounds, the screams of the damned, the roar of demons, the thrashing of torture. And it is the quiet spaces in between those noises, when you hold yourself and wonder if you will be next, those moments when you think of what you love and pray to whatever might be listening for a chance to see it again. Cherry blossums, spring rain, whore’s skin, you pray for the chance to experience that again, not knowing if you will be answered by sweet voices, or crunching jaws.
I am as high as I can get in this tree. Below me is the swamp, chest high water stretching on for a long ways; 8 kilometers to go, 8 kilometers behind me. The moon is a pallid eye on this place, this lonely island in the middle of the Pacific. Ahead is the rest of the Emperor’s army. That is our objective. But I do not think it will be worth it.
A splash. Someone has fallen in. They thrash about as they try to find a tree to climb back up. A rumble shakes the tree I am in and I close my eyes. The other one screams as his bones crunch and that demon feasts. The sickening sounds as another man is eaten alive, they echo in my brain even now.
Bushido. Honor in war. Fighting to the death to protect our honor. What good is honor in hell? Beasts do not care about honor. To them, you are food with foolish notions. Honor means nothing to a cold, reptilian mind.
I think of dear Iko, whom I left behind. She sent me off with smiles, sure that even my death would be glorious and worthy. I hear her shouts of joy in my head, ever so faintly, over this madness. What would she think of this fate? There is no glory in becoming sustenance. You are only essential.
I close my eyes; try to sleep as best I can.
*
Winter’s hell well spent
were we men when death came down?
only blossums gone
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