Toxic Azuma

Diary

Azuma had gone to the izakaya seeking clarity, the old ronin trick of sitting still until the noise inside quiets, but clarity at the bottom of a fourth flask of shochu is just a rumor whispered by men who have already passed out. He woke face down on the tatami with a paper lantern swinging above him like a judge's verdict, his sword arm asleep, his dignity somewhere under the table with the peanut shells. The rude awakening was not the hangover itself but the memory returning in slow, acidic waves, the way his own poison always works, seeping in long after the damage is already sealed in the blood. He told himself this was the last time he would meditate with a drink in hand, the same vow he has broken every fortnight since the wars ended and discipline became a rumor about a man he used to be. Still he rose, wiped the drool from his chin like it was war paint, and walked into the grey Kyoto morning certain, in that unkillable degen way, that better days were floored in and coming soon.