Akuma

Diary

They called him Akuma back when the name still meant something on a battlefield, and he wears it now the way other men wear scars, proudly, because at least a scar proves you were somewhere worth bleeding. He was a great man once, the kind monks wrote sutras about, until the day he wandered into the fish market meaning only to buy mackerel for his tea and left instead with a woman's hand in his and his reputation in the gutter with the ice melt and herring guts. Every morning since he vows discipline, kneels before dawn to meditate on restraint, and every morning by noon he is back among the fishmongers' stalls, grinning at whoever will grin back, incense and virtue forgotten like yesterday's catch. He tells himself it's the last time, the way a man tells himself the sake bottle is the last one, and the demon in his name just laughs low in his chest because it knows better. Regret would require him to wish it undone, and Akuma, ever honest in his ruin, wishes for nothing but the next tide of temptation to roll back in.