"Tamahagane Steel." : A Lazarus Graim Tale

TW: slurs

My finger rose sharply. The immaculate cuticle at the end of my accusatory digit, shimmered like polished Tamahagane steel. My sudden unconscious action, weighed heavy in the air, like an intentionally drawn Katana blade. There was no time to breath. In fact all oxygen seemed to have disappeared; like fearful onlookers, fleeing a deadly Ronin showdown. 

My finger held its position. It did not waver or tremble; it held steady and thus I held the room in awe. I looked down the sight of my arm and past the finger. The sight I beheld was the expected outcome of my terrible, insensitive response. My son's face, starkly contrasted against the surrounds, looking at me, aghast. His mouth drawn back in shock. Tears welling up on the invisible shore of his eye-line; a precursor to a future tsunami. My son's skin turned ashen, like his mother's when he'd said his final goodbye to her. A day that had also been fraught with bad calls, bad decisions and bad results. 

The last thing I wanted to do was dwell on the morning of my wife's funeral. It was over 20 years ago. My son had just turned eight. My brother had tried to warn me. I brushed of his offered guidance, I was convinced my younger brother knew less than me and that my son was more than old enough to endure this adult experience. My brother (bless his good nature) still questioned my decision;suddenly grabbing my right shoulder he pleaded with me that I take a second and rethink this course of action. To no avail. I was confident my son was made of stronger stuff. I assured my brother his fears were unfounded and that my boy would pay his respects without incident. In fact, I'd been instructing him for the past few days on how to approach her and say farewell; therefore I was certain everything was going to go off without a hitch. My brother pinched the bridge of his nose, shook his head and turned away, defeated. I stood next to my wife's coffin with a curious feeling of pride for my adult son. I waved him in to come and say his fond farewell. The tiny man exploded with grief when he saw his mum in the open casket. 

I strode over to him, grabbed him by his fragile scruff and ushered him physically from the room. My embarrassment at this turn of events made visible as my ears blossomed red like a fresh cut. I sensed how next-door my family all turned their stares to the floor and nervously shuffled with their feet. Adrenaline gushed through my body as if an artery had been sliced. 

I held my little boy roughly against the wall of this empty room. My feeble attempts to calm him or to make assuring eye contact were all ineffective. I was nowhere near equal to this daunting task. I never wanted this skill set. I was a stranger to compassion empathy comfort. I'd left that to my wife. I was comfortable being the embodiment of strength, protection and survival i.e. all ego.

I squeezed my son harder, yet another failed attempt to get his attention and to finally get him to do what i want him to do:

calm down, shut the fuck up and stop embarrassing me.

The slap came out of nowhere. It arrived like the horsemen of the apocalypse but there were no trumpets no chaos. In fact the opposite occurred; everything went deathly silent. A few years later in a moment of remorseful reminiscing, I'd idly wondered if that was the kind of silence native to the countryside around Hiroshima on the sixth of August, nineteen forty-five, at eight sixteen precisely. I suspected it was. My son fell to the floor like a discarded, severed limb. He made no sound, but the wounded look he gave me, filled me with indignant anger. My patriarchal mind barked: 

"If he'd done as he was told none of this would have happened." 

I raised my hand to issue forth a second commanding blow. A small whimper escaped the bruised visage and I instantly recoiled from the image of my injured son and the intimate knowledge that I was responsible. I stumbled backwards, knocking into my brother as he came through the connecting door. His face darkened as he observed the battlefield. In my heart I know that on that day my brother lost all respect for me; regardless of my seniority. He shoved me roughly aside, scooped up my tiny, tear streaked, disheveled boy and whisked him away.

To this day, that cataclysmic memory, haunts me. 

Sometime later, at the next family gathering I made a big show of publicly promising to myself, my son and my entire family that it

would never happen again. My brother scoffed loudly at my apology, turned on his heel and walked away before I'd even finished my sentence. He had very keen foresight my brother. You see it was a promise I've been unable to keep. Nowadays after so many failed attempts and bruises on my boy I see that oath I swore more as a goal to achieve. After every shocked, hurt expression on my son's innocent face as he grew up under my loveless roof; I took a poker and stirred the embers of that promise, stoking the fuel of the fire to improve and better myself. 

My son decided to leave home after finishing Uni. I was so proud of this achievement and relieved that he managed to land himself a good job. As the years past I often thought, he must be lonely, what with no girlfriend. When I pressed him on this he laughed it off and told me he was focusing on his work.

"But I have fun on the weekends Pops." 

I smiled slyly at that wording, imagining my son sowing his wild oats. At some point though I started half seriously joking with him about grand kids. His standard answer: 

"Maybe next year pops." 

Oddly enough next year never came. 

Now I'm here, back to my default stance. Honestly it's to be expected. A leopard cannot change his spots. Thus I stand here, once again on the brink of something eruptive, something deadly, something that's impossible to undo.

Just as a blade drawn in anger, cannot be placed peacefully back in its scabbard; I am powerless to lower my scolding finger, or to hold back the nasty words I hiss into my little boy's face, 

"You are no son of mine... Homo... Get out! Get out! Take your faggy friend with you!! Get the fuck of my porch! Do not darken my door again!! I have no son!! DO YOU HEAR ME!! I HAVE NO SON!"