Yowamushi: The Kitsune Wife

He does not wield the power to cheapen me, yet he succeeds in doing so. Foolish curiosity provokes me to understand all his words and methods of expression. That noisome venom he spits is simply fascinating. I cannot stop thinking about it. Never has a human been able to lure me to their side with stupidity. Now there is a Koi-Kaze ring bonded to my finger and bizarre mortal interests that oppress my nature. I appear as a loving wife. I am a glad witness to his mistakes. I appear as the traditional Japanese woman, void of the foreigners’ stereotypes while embracing domestic life. But I am no woman of high virtue, and the man in my household strongly agrees.

He wishes I were a statistic in the realm of the world’s most vulnerable populations. He craves power and purpose, scraping the streets for impressionable persons. I go with him to the shrines often, and I blend in well. If I were to show my ears or paired tails, this hardworking man would be able to bask in my glory, yet remain ungrateful. My intelligent words are greater music than the matsuri-bayashi or colorful laughter in the crowd. My voice elevates the praise the others give in their religions, and their tender skin tingles when I come nearer. But no matter how often my glorious gaze entwines with that of this man, there is a loss of divinity within my heart.

I cannot recall my relationship with him. Strangers revere only me then turn away. This man proceeds with a smile. All our conversations stall between dancing rain and salt baths. I insult him under my breath every day he fumbles around the minka reading medical patient forms and fending off a high dose of illegal drugs.

“Yowamushi.”

The word lives with us, tracking our every move. I taunt all his achievements in private. Sometimes I corrupt his childhood memories with trivial things. When he leaves for work with a neatly ironed suit, I pace around the house, slowly going insane. Fox fire-coated frustration begs me to release it, but the minka was so wonderfully crafted. It is the most special sight in late winter when everyone tucks themselves away to read novels. On a beautiful mornings when he is absent, I go through his study in my original form. I leave fur and footprints on his spirit mats. I know I can do as much damage as I please, but even the woman who seems slightly mischievous will be crushed under the law.

I am no pet. That is for the silly dogs and cats who do not realize they are raised to serve a human’s unmanaged emotions. Most creatures do not need a man or woman. I am no man or woman, and I despise the house pet. What good does his lavish doghouse do if it is always vacant? Alas, the owner of the mutt does not speak to me about that or anything besides domestic affairs.

He asks me questions. I keep the response short and edgy. My mind wanders at his unwillingness to address my feelings. Eclipses of hardened happiness linger in my core whenever he starts to pray or speaks about the deities. Humans appear to be holy, and they find great joy in charades. Their invalid words have a magic to them, but their souls are locked. I turn down every offer from every man. I know what they would do with commitment. So while my partner laughs and drinks with his friends, I eavesdrop by wearing a naive smile on my painted lips.

It interests me that women are the subject of a man’s mind half of the time. I live with the proof of that. As I swarm around this man’s social groups, I take note of every mention of “uzai” women and each reference to the female physique. When the female commoners come around him, they bow their heads and engage in polite conversations.

He lets them speak once he has driven all his points in great detail, just as he does with me. His stare is always demanding me to act on his standards, and to be respectful. But I have studied proper mortal etiquette for 64 years. I am forevermore young and divine, untethered from weak-minded expectations. I comply with empty expressions of love, disguising myself behind soft grins and a luscious coat of fur at midnight.

“Yowamushi,” I complain to the moon, pawing my chirirenge.

I remain tall and slender while mortals weep over their marriages. They know they can do better in their lives. They want to be more, but will never be. I am no exception nor am I associated with them in the slightest.

My womb will forever rest. The minka will remain as tidy as the shrine from the lack of tampering. Politicians will stretch their necks to their own deaths to behold my rank. I shall stride across all the temple lands, and no authority can lift a finger to prevent my worthy praise. All evil that men do will belong solely to them, and they shall burn at the deities hands — or my own.

Gazing upon me with ill intent will be a contagious, retched sin that clings to the heart and mind, and I am free to flaunt my divinity. I think about my greatness every day, cultivating venom for the man of my house.

His office reeks of pride and private discussion. When he shuts his door to concentrate deeply, I go down by my gracefully refined garden, marveling myself for building elegant structures and statues for Kami. I pretend not to notice his collected expression as he takes his calls. His lips spell out slurred curses. I feel secure in my thick fur and watch him. Without looking away, I indulge in the sight of his paperwork flying about him. The rage in his eyes makes me giggle. I wait to see more of him in the morning.

His dog gets lost, so I get busy with piled laundry and allow the man that sleeps here to panic. He decides to go on a vacation. I keep a growing distance from his shoulder and encourage him with nods and coffee. A single outfit is ready for him. Complete silence returns. We are on our way.

Nara is ugly with him here. The heat of the sun is pesky now, and the city is frigid. I grow irritated when he scowls at his clothes’ scent. My eyes narrow. An argument breaks loose like a wildfire. I stomp my heels. I do not hold back. I drown him in shame and strangle him with snakish remarks.

He cowers. I morph into a kitsune again. My claws sink into his skin. I burn him as much as I can.

All the other mortals gather and scream. They tear us apart. I try to get back to him. I must be with him. But women hold me down, beat me down, scold me, and shake me. It hurts so much! I beg for mercy. The pain intensifies. I whimper and weep. I bleed at the hands of women, mothers, wives— and I call out to my husband to save me.

He does not belong to his toxic friends or the parents that abandoned him. He is not a slave to his futile research that is conducted to cure his terminally ill dog. He has no fault in his demanding bosses’ deadlines. He does not answer to illicit substances. He is mine and mine only.

But I am blinded by his small flaws that have followed me to the altar years ago. My vows, which were to protect him from what he is today, are meaningless.

And the people are so blinded by my cowardice that they disregard my divinity. I know this suffering will become an eternity when I see the women’s expressions.

“Yowamushi.”

Now that I embody that word, I fully understand the weight of it.