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I remember when I had first met you.
You were unlike any other woman I’d encountered before. Not only did you possess a beauty that I cannot describe to this day, a beauty that I’d never, and have not since, witnessed on another woman, you were strangely charismatic. Though you were shunned for this, turned away by many a fellow before me for this, I found your bountiful personality utterly enthralling. For whenever you spoke, the distant cries of children, the wretched politicians, the weeping homeless, they all melted away.
Your voice in particular pulled me towards you greatly in those first few months. There was something of a charm to it, a unique ring in your tone every time you would speak to me. And I had noticed that that ring showed itself to me and me only. Of course, when you would speak to your family, or friends, or something like that, you would sound happy as well. I doubt I’d have fallen for you so deeply if you saved all your love for me and no one else. But there was something about that ring. Oh, my dear, perhaps you loved too much.
I remember you were always embarrassed to sing. You know, you could have gone far with that beautiful voice of yours. Though your pitch was that of a normal woman when you spoke, you had the unique ability to lower your tone greatly when you sang. You’d always dismiss it and say you were just an alto, but I reckon you were a female tenor. Beautifully unique, your singing was. As much as you tried to hide it from me, I always managed to sneak a listen every now and then.
And to think I can barely remember your voice now.
Then again, your voice wasn’t the only brilliant part of you. As I have mentioned, I am yet to meet another woman – or another man, for that matter – with such a bright personality as yours. Though you’d always wear a stern countenance, attempting to make yourself appear tough and mighty to the public, I knew as soon as I’d first laid my eyes upon you that it was an act. I feel as though I was always able to read your face in ways no one else could.
And I couldn’t blame you for trying to act sturdy. I know you always struggled with people taking you seriously. Men in particular would shun you for the simple act of being a woman. Oh, I despised them all. I still do. You were never thought of as responsible, I recall. Didn’t you once tell me that I was the only man who’d ever treated you like a fully grown human instead of some stupid child? Well, damn them.
I remember when you first told me you loved me.
It was a Friday, I believe. I only remember this because you’d joked about how unlucky Friday the 13th is. I still, to this day, cannot understand why that day is associated with such bad things, for it was one of the most amazing days of my life. You’d taken me out to a park near your house, and we’d bought some onigiri to eat whilst we strolled. You’d complained about your legs getting tired, so we’d taken a rest on a bench near a tree, and you’d decided to take your frustrations out by judging people as they passed us.
“Do you see him?” you’d muttered.
“Hm? What about him?”
“That kimono he’s wearing doesn’t suit him. It’s something about the colour, it makes him look horrific.”
“He looks like a normal man to me.”
You’d paused then, taking a moment to gaze at the side of my face before turning your attention back to the people surrounding us, attempting to subtly shift yourself closer to me as you did so. I was caught slightly off guard by this, but it certainly wasn’t an unwelcome advancement. After you’d spent a moment too silent to be deemed socially acceptable, I spoke up for you instead.
“What about him?” I’d actioned to a man further away this time.
“To Hell with it.” you hadn’t taken a moment to even consider him. “I hope you know I’m not the type to go around judging people based on how they look.”
“...Right.”
“A-and I certainly wouldn’t judge the way you look.”
I’d turned to you at this. “Well, I’d hope so..?”
“Ugh!” you’d cried, slamming your hands to the sides of your face and desperately shutting your eyes. “Was that not obvious enough?! God, Yuujin, I’m in love with you!”
The rest of that evening must have gone better than you’d expected. For I have no doubt in my mind that you were unsure if your confession would woo me, but woo me it did. My dear, every time I think back on that day, I pray to every God I can think of to take me back.
I remember the day of our wedding.
You’d woken up earlier than usual that day, eager to prepare yourself for what would be referred to as one of the best days of your life. You never cared for sleep schedules, or even waking up at a time deemed acceptable, but you’d made the effort for me that day. Despite my reassurance that you’d look beautiful no matter how you presented yourself, and my multiple attempts at telling you I wouldn’t jilt you at the altar over some petty makeup mistakes, still you decided to appear as attractive as you could be.
And though you were, and still are, the most attractive woman I’ve had the honour of laying my eyes upon, let alone marry, you looked strange that day. Not in a bad way, of course not, but you were nothing like your usual self. I would take you in any form, and I did so that day, but my only regret was being unable to convince you of your own natural beauty. I would later come to learn that you’d regretted that, too.
I remember our night after our marriage. You were desperate to get your hands on me, and I’d be a lying fool if I were to say I wasn’t desperate either, but even in your desperation you were as gentle as an angel, treating my skin as if it were a porcelain doll rather than human flesh. And after the act, still you held me and whispered how grateful you were for me, how you’d rather die than leave my side. What was that, cruel irony?
I remember the day I held you for the last time, and the day I held her for the first.
You were heavily pregnant, practically bursting at the seams with our soon-to-be daughter. For the past few days, you’d been pondering names. Shouting them out during the middle of a task, or whilst we were eating, or even in your sleep. You were always a heavy sleeper, but not once during the late stage of your pregnancy did you fall asleep before me. Still, in my dreams, your voice would present itself with a new name every so often.
Your sudden labour had caused you to collapse. As I was a doctor in training, though this was not my field of study, I was able to help you for the most part. Our daughter was already demanding to be freed, wailing and flailing whatever limbs she’d gotten out to accentuate her argument. All the while, though I knew I shouldn’t take my eyes off of our beautiful creation, I couldn’t help but notice the pain written all over your face.
At first, I’d supposed it was normal. Obviously some pain would be involved in pushing a baby out of yourself, I’d thought. But as it continued, as she poured further and further out of you, I’d realised the grief on your face hadn’t left. And only in the final stretches of your daughters’ birth did you reach your bloody, frail hand out to mine and hold it weakly, the most you could do in your turmoil.
Three syllables.
“...Su…”
The first came the strongest, the sudden burst in energy helping your cause.
“...sa…”
The second was weaker, though still able to be made out.
“...to…”
The third could barely be heard, your delicate state catching up to your mouth.
As I felt your hand fall limp on my own, I could not cry, nor scream, nor become aggressive. For as you left the world, our daughter came into it, crying, screaming, and aggressive. Though soaked in her mother’s blood and her father’s sorrow, our little Susato was born a healthy baby girl. Part of me wishes for her to grow up to be just like you, but the other part worries that if that happens, I’ll be unable to look at her without thinking of the brilliant mother she never had.
So now, I sit on a dingy table on this boat to England. My friends have left me here, as they have for the majority of the past few days, understanding my grief. Ayame, do you believe I’ve made the right decision? Are you angry that I’ve left her? I cannot decide how I feel myself, though after your passing, I realise I cannot decide many things.
This world is cruel and twisted.