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The gong echoes over the expanse of the exorbitant estate. Morning has come.
This place keeps me on my toes. Every shuffling footstep is memorised in my mind; every whispering voice is recognisable to me. I know before the key turns when a guard is letting me out of my room. I can always tell when the clumsy maid is bringing my meals, and subsequently anticipate the half-empty teacup. These inane details flow like a rushing stream through my mind. When your brain is starved of stimulation, it’ll find anything to latch onto.
Sometimes, I imagine the metallic singing of the morning gong as my mothers voice, beckoning me to a warm breakfast with hair still messy and soft sounds coming from the radio. It could very well be her voice; it’s been so long that I wouldn’t know either way.
This morning thunder outside harmonises with the churning inside my stomach. Each day closer to this one has brought about stronger and stronger rains, with fluttering raindrops quickly turning into malevolent daggers of hail as the times change. In the manor, everyone holds their breath. Obstructing eyes lord over the milk on the stove, waiting to harvest the volatile liquid before it suddenly sours.
My first meal arrives at the behest of the most efficient maid in the estate, guard snapping the lock open with wrapt attention. I imagine twisting gyres inside the complex mechanism, unwinding itself at the seam, an ouroboros reluctantly regurgitating its tail to open access to me. Today there is no room for error.
A lonely teacup sits on the tray, somberly steaming. The porcelain teacup crashes clumsily against my teeth as I hastily down the liquid, and I read my fortune. The tea leaves swim slowly towards the bottom of the cup, forming a lazy fish shape. It’s so ironic that I can almost hear the fish laughing at me. Prosperity, abundance, good luck – that’s one way to phrase it. But in this quiet room, it’s hard to hear anything except my own breathing.
The fish stares back at me, bubbles rising. I feel the urge to reply to it, to pop bubbles back. But even after finishing the cup of aromatic green tea, my throat is dry. Just the thought of making a sound makes my throat start to itch with anticipation, makes my neck tense with a sudden fervour. It’s been too long now. I can’t go back.
Even though I need to be prepared for this day, the emptiness in my stomach resonates throughout my whole body. I am donning the clothes that my family has worn for generations. In the house that every eldest son before me has been chained to. The heavy cloth weighs against my shoulders. Soft slipping satin runs down my arms while linen drapes loose around my torso. The intricately embroidered fish jump out at me, the symbol of my family’s longstanding vitality and vigour. I feel no ancestral pride in these lavish accoutrements. There is only a rushing noise powering through my ears.
There is a sudden thundering of footsteps, culminating in a rapid knock at the wooden door. It slides open with a flourish.
“Young master, please, it is almost time!” The maid’s hurried breaths are louder than the words she speaks.
I do not turn from the mirror. Instead, I look at the face that has followed me for my entire life.
Before I was born, prayers were answered. The blessing of a boy, of good health, a strong heart. That all changed when I arrived. When you’re part of such an illustrious family, there are often dark corners filled with cobwebs of secrets and all-knowing spiders. However, there is no way to simply ignore or brush away my presence. Every time I look in the mirror, I see the horrifying, ancestral face I inherited staring back at me. There is only a mass of thick scar tissue, scaling skin and gleaming flesh where my mouth should be. It, and myself by extension, serve as a reminder that no matter how hard you try, no secrets are ever truly buried. And eventually, when I too am planted in the ground next to my distinct ancestors, a new sacrifice will come along to bear the family’s curse.
The maid approaches, half-veil in hand. It’s to cover the unsightly; yet they couldn’t manufacture one large enough to swallow me whole.
The omnipresent silence in the estate rings true as the maid reaches forward to attach the veil. Silver bells chime as they are shakily brought up to my face. I must hold my breath now; superstition says it’s bad luck to hear any noise emerge from this cursed disfigurement. Poison will seep into your ears, and from then the curse will spread and our family’s heritage will live on. This is why the rotten root must now be extracted.
We walk along the wooden halls of the manor house. It’s been so long since I’ve heard the steady, confirming sounds of my own footsteps. I really am alive, it seems. For all lacking and longing in my lifetime, my body still makes deafening sound waves, regardless of folk tale or superstition.
The ceremony hall is just as luxurious and soulless as the rest of the estate. Dark wooden floors and walls make every soft noise reverberate. Nothing is lost in this room. Our whole clan kneels on the cold floors, refusing to meet my gaze. The only sound is the sonorous ringing of my footsteps as I walk though the open aisle of people, meeting my damnation. Most of these people haven’t seen me since the day of my birth. What a cheap farce of a family. They feel no remorse in watching my feeble life quietly be snubbed out.
A deep purple throne ornaments the dark stage at the front of the hall, a familiar face adorning the rich velvet. He is as imposing as ever; the judge of my fate. All rests on his assured shoulders, but this scale was unbalanced from the start.
“Toge Inumaki. Eldest son of the current generation head of the Inumaki clan. You are on trial for the crime of your sacrilegious birth.”
In some ways, my life was over as soon as it began. When the nurses took me from my mother’s womb and saw the mutilation that grew in place of my face. Perhaps before that, when I had yet to open my eyes, I was cursed to this fate. It’s hard to imagine what I did in a past life to reap such a defective karmic destiny.
“How do you plead?”
I try to open my mouth, to produce a sound. It feels rotten to stoop to their level by participating in this perverse farce of a trial. I’m unsure what exactly compels me to act; perhaps I simply want to be the one to admit my so-called guilt and thus retain the minuscule dignity I have.
Obviously, nothing happens. It brings to mind a similar memory from childhood. Being accused of stealing and eating the food that I had painstakingly left out for the wandering local cat. The compulsion to defend myself came out in the form of white-hot screams of defiance. My shrill, high-pitched voice seemed to burn the ears of the people around me as the sound waves touched them. I was too young to know then, the horror of hearing the voice of the cursed one. Later, I found that all of the servants in the room, including my childhood nurse, had to be executed for their own salvation. A necessary evil, one that I had no right to mourn over. Naturally from then on the clan could not take such risks, which is why they sliced my tongue off clean from the root.
I imagine my mouth to be representative of the gaping chasm my life has long since come to resemble. I am always lacking, whether it’s simple needs like food and water or something more carnal like warmth and the sound of my own voice.
The gavel bangs mournfully. It reaches every corner of the hall.
“Toge, your silence condemns you.” The irony is irking. That smug man, who has controlled my life since the day I was born. The darkest part of me wants nothing more than to scream until my lungs give out, to let out all the pent-up sounds from the past eighteen years in a single, all-encompassing scream. He has stolen my prospects of happiness, my family, and any love I could have experienced. And now, finally, he will reap my soul and rid the clan of my bedevilled self.
The gong rings ceremoniously, commemorating the imminent prosperity of the clan. Two attendants grab my arms, as if I have ever resisted the will of the clan, and guide me forward. A tender hand bends my neck to a lowered wooden platform. Only now in my final moments do I receive any warmth. I am intimately familiar with the Inumaki clan’s method of execution. The sterile and merciless blade of the guillotine shines with anticipation. I can only assume that she’s thirsty in the intense heat of this moment.
“May we bless this sacrifice and pray for a clean future for our clan.” The gong rings. There’s something fragile in this admission. I look up at the clan leader, but he does not meet my eyes. Regardless of how he has tried to distance himself, he is still my father and I am still his failure. At least I can die knowing that my death will bring prosperity to the clan.
Defiance. Punishment. Rehabilitation. In the end that’s all my life has come down to. Silence rings true throughout the hall, as the people that I never even got the change to know bow their heads in resignation. I relax against the sturdy wood of the guillotine. The hands of past servants, family members, ancestors, soften the stiff grasp of the polished box. I close my eyes and listen for the familiar sound of silence.
The gong rings. This is the third and final time. The last, and most significant, thing I will hear. As the guards step back and the rope of the guillotine shifts, however, I begin to sense a shift in the air. Distantly familiar footsteps thunder through the wooden hall, practically shaking the walls with their power. The ritual has been disturbed. Soft bells sing to this strange newcomer as I gently raise my head. I am immediately accosted by the strong bloodlust engulfing the hall. A sword is unsheathed; there is a glint of silver. Without ceremony, the shocked clan members begin to drop like flies. He cuts a quick path with surgical precision, never needing more than one strike to take home the win. It has quickly become apparent who this man is, to the clan leader as well judging by the dashing panic in his once-composed eyes.
It’s only natural for well-established families to brush against each other every once in a while. We all have extensive history, and grudges that have long been set in stone. For the Inumaki clan, their only true rivalry lies with the clan that has been alive for just as lengthy of a time, whose power can rival their own. It is, of course, the Gojo clan.
It has been many years since their young master was last spotted; the elusive Yuuta Okkotsu. I met him only once, in a mandatory appearance between the major clan heads. I could not speak a word the entire night, however the intense glance we shared from across the meeting table comes back to me like it was yesterday. Yuuta's piercing eyes, even at that young age, fascinated me.
He has finally made it to the stage. The whole clan has been massacred before my eyes, yet the air around him remains charged with electricity. He sheaths his sword, instead picking up the weighty gong mallet.
“I’ve never imagined these to be so heavy.” He mutters with lofty indifference. The calm in his eyes contrast greatly with the blood on his robes and seemingly volatile state of mind.
Yuuta glances between the clan leader and myself. The gong mallet swings absent-mindedly in his hands.
“I have an assignment, you see.” Blood drips from his wrist to the wooden floors, permanently defiling their once sacred nature. “For my coming of age, I have been ordered to kill one hundred people whom I deem unworthy of life.” This evokes an involuntary shudder, the cold indifference behind Yuuta’s words coming like a cold shock to his mind. “Obviously, it’s supposed to be an excruciating moral challenge, but I don’t really believe in that stuff.” His teeth are sharp and dangerous like the rest of him. “So, I seem to be at around… ninety-nine? That leaves me with one final task.”
Suddenly, Yuuta’s arm is raised in an impossibly fast strike. His first swing rings like angels championing a hero, bright and clear with yang energy seemingly haloing his body.
“Current generation head and leader of the Inumaki clan. You are on trial for the crime of murdering your eldest son, Toge Inumaki.”
There is a beat of silence as everyone remaining in the room processes this sentence.
“This is not a murder! This is- this is an offering! It is a beautiful ceremony of life!” The meaning of religion and superstition seem to be lost on Yuuta.
“How do you plead?”
The clan leader looks between Yuuta and myself. He is scared; it’s an emotion that I recognise from myself moments ago. But I don’t believe in fighting fate.
“Romulus, you have to die. For the betterness of the clan! I know you know this. You have an important role in our clan’s future!” The sharp pleads echo in my head. The freedom in which he uses his voice, in which he begs for his life. That is a luxury I was never afforded.
“I am not a patient man.” Yuuta remarks with a sinister smile on his face. “What say the witness?”
This would be the moment. I am so close to that freedom that I have chased my whole life, that has been taken from me time and time again. However, try as I might, my throat can’t make out the words. ‘Guilty’ and ‘convict’ and ‘death penalty’ all try to escape, but it’s no use. In a last-ditch attempt, I manage to softly murmur the monosyllabic “Yuu” sound that makes up the start of Yuuta’s first name. It is a pathetic, humiliating reminder of all this clan has cost me.
“I understand” is all Yuuta says with a resolute smile. He hits the gong a second time, and the weight of the strike drives the clan leader to his knees. “You are condemned. Guilty.”
There is something very unceremonious about the way Yuuta drags the clan leader onto the guillotine, arms flailing in a feeble attempt to regain some control. Silver shackles snap into service. This must be some type of karmic punishment, dying to the archaic machine that has taken the lives of so many Inumakis of the past.
The intoxicating scent of blood in the room is ambrosial. It smells like freedom. Yuuta passes the heavy mallet to me as he takes hold of the rope. I shrug off my heavy outer robes. At this moment, I feel less like a fish of prosperity and more like a snake, shedding its old skin for something new and gleaming and wet.
As I wield the mallet, I feel a heavy sense of anticipation shroud me. Using all my power, I strike it with a deep force. At the same time, slicing cuts the air as the blade of the guillotine comes rushing down. The harmonising sounds reverberate around the ceremony hall. It is penetrating and all-encompassing; I hear it in the deep heart’s core. My veil chimes like singing funeral bells, giggling at the bewildering affair.
As the overwhelming sound waves begin to disperse through the air, peace settles over me. Rain comes rushing down outside, hitting the stone pathways with a thundering applause like angels on Judgment Day.
With his task completed, Yuuta simply begins to walk away, an affluent celebration undoubtedly awaiting him after his successful coming of age.
“What will you do with your new life?” There is a gleaming curiosity in his smile.
I raise my arm, and the gong sings unashamed, consecrating the final day of the Inumaki clan.