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“What kind of woman are you?”
Mitsuri blinked. Her mouth parted, a sound of confusion somewhere in her throat as her mother’s critical gaze settled across the tea table.
Instantly, self-consciousness overtook her thoughts and chased themselves frantically about her head. Were her roots showing again? Had she drank too quickly? Snacked too much? Talked too loudly? Done too many chores earlier without tiredness? Then again, she was always tired, wishing she could eat more—but no, she couldn’t.
Even with how faint she felt, how much lethargy settled across her muscles, she was still too strong. Still too odd. And no one would want her if she were too odd.
Normal. That was what she had to be. With hair black as night and body thin and dainty, voice demure and womanly enough no one could reject her.
And yet, her mother’s piercing gaze cut through the dye and the paint and the hunger, and somehow, Mitsuri felt wrong.
Lime eyes—the same color as her own, except blessedly framed by dark strands placed upon a small body—stared at her, and Mitsuri felt shame for a different reason.
“Wh-what do you mean, Mother?”
“Are you not proud of yourself?”
“P-proud?” Mitsuri bit her lip. She was confused. What was there to be proud of? She could be proud when she finally made herself womanly enough for a husband and finally be out of her family’s hair. She would be proud when she could be a proper daughter to her parents.
Instead of the oddity that the entire village whispered about when she passed through their streets.
“Yes, Mitsuri.” Her mother crossed her arms and sat taller. Mitsuri felt as if she were a child again, hand on the last of the sakura mochi, cheeks stuffed and limbs frozen under her parent’s gazes. “I’ve let you do as you like so far. Let you dye your hair and refuse your meals. But you’re pale as snow. You nearly fainted yesterday. Are you happy like this?”
“H-happy?” Mitsuri could barely hear her own voice, her eyes watering in frustration, her throat tight. She looked to the teacup in her hand to hide her face. “I… but the marriage arrangement… if I were normal…”
“You are normal, Mitsuri.”
A sob broke its way out of her chest, and her mother stood. Her mother moved to sit at her side. Her mother brushed her fingers through her hair and held her close.
“Not everyone has the same kind of normal in their lives,” she said. “But yours is beautiful the way it is.”
Mitsuri shook her head, “But I’m just a burden to you and Father! What good is a daughter that can’t get married? I eat too much and I’m too strong and I can never be a proper woman—!”
“Proper women are proud of who they are.”
Mitsuri closed her mouth and sniffed. Her mother rubbed her back.
“What kind of woman are you, Mitsuri? Are you going to keep hurting yourself, or are you going to be proud of yourself?”
Can’t someone love me?
Is there anyone who could love me for who I am?
How do I be loved?
So many questions, so many doubts. So many times she had asked herself if it were worth it to keep trying, or if she should shut herself away and not be a bother.
Sometimes she had thought, At least I could keep my beautiful mochi hair.
But then she would be a terrible daughter. She wouldn’t be able to smile without people to smile at.
Could she smile right now, though?
“You are a beautiful young woman, Mitsuri,” her mother said softly, the same voice that had sang her to sleep and fed her as much as she liked and made her matching kimonos when her hair had started to fade to pink and lime. “I worry for you.”
“I’m sorry. I’m sorry I worry you.”
“It’s okay, my little warrior. It’s what I want to do.”
“Is it… is it really okay?” Mitsuri closed her eyes tight. “Is it okay fo me to be odd?”
“You are yourself, Mitsuri. You can decide who you are.”
Mitsuri turned her head and cried into her mother’s kimono. She cried and cried and wished she could wash away every strand of black from her hair, eat a full meal, sleep because it was all so very tiring trying to find someone who loved her.
Except her mother had always loved her. Even when her hair was brighter than the flowers. Even when she could lift a stone bigger than her body when she was but a year old. Even when she had returned home in tears because her fiance had decided he couldn’t marry an oddity like her.
“I’m sorry, Mother,” she cried. “I’m sorry. I’m sorry.”
“I’m sorry I didn’t talk to you sooner, Mitsuri.” Her mother brushed Mitsuri’s bangs from her face. “Now, how would you like to eat a real meal?”
“C-can I?”
“Of course you can,” her mother smiled. “You can do anything you like.”
Anything you like.
The years passed. Mitsuri, with all of her might and her mother’s words at her back, used them to become herself. She learned of the demons that roamed the earth when one attacked her village—and the very man that had turned her down. She decided, then, what she wanted to use her strength for.
To protect people. To find the people that loved her.
She defeated her first demon without a sword, and without a drop of dye in her hair.
She discovered the people that defeated them, and found words of encouragement that filled her heart with a fierce whirlwind of love that she would never forget.
Mitsuri walked through the little mountain village, the weight of a sword confidently at her side. The streets were lit with lanterns and candles and vendors. Eyes were attracted to her with every step she took, from her long, lime green socks to her white haori among the sea of duller colors. Most expressions, however, harbored a shock and curiosity toward her long, heavy braid—the color of sakura petals dipped in springtime emerald.
Her shoulders remained tall. Her smile remained dazzling. No matter the judgement she faced, she could be no less than proud.
What kind of woman are you, my little warrior?
She could feel her targets among the curiosity. They were different from the civilians. They were full of excitement and bloodthirst.
She turned down an abandoned alley, leading those gazes away from the festival goers.
And as she drew the sword at her side, she knew.
Mitsuri Kanroji, a proud woman and a demon slayer.