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There’s a large moth flying into the paper of the floor lamp beside him, a solid thunk accompanying each attempt to get at the flame, and the sound echoes in Izo’s head as he tries to block out another sound, that of Takechi Hanpeita shouting at him. But in the back of his mind he still registers some words that stand out: Idiot. Useless. Stupid. Worthless.
They’re familiar, having been thrown at him by his teacher, his comrades, even himself sometimes over the years. That describes me perfectly, he thinks.
Above his left shoulder expensive sake soaks into the painted mulberry paper of the sliding doors where the cup sensei threw at him smashed into pieces. He smells the bitter tang of the alcohol and the blood on his cheek where one of the shards cut him. He can almost taste it.
I deserved that, he thinks, though some part of him hopes for Takechi-sensei to care about the cut on his arm instead.
Izo almost bungled Honma Seiichiro’s murder, the task he and five others were assigned earlier that night. Honma’s speed and strength with the sword came as a surprise and Izo (for the first time in years) found himself on the defense against an opponent who was simply better than him.
I could have lost my arm, he thinks for the umpteenth time as the wound throbs against the bandages again.
For a short time, he’d been convinced his arm was gone when he saw the blade flash toward himself and felt the pain. But then he realized that even though he was bleeding a lot and it hurt, his hand was still attached and his fingers were still working. Well, truthfully, it’s not so much that he’d realized, but that one of his comrades told him to stop sniveling about that little scratch, you fucking idiot, and get the fuck up before you get us caught.
He made it back to the inn somehow, light-headed, his sleeve soaked in blood, and his comrades walking ahead of him without concern, while he tried to let go of the panic that was tightening around his heart. I could have died.
Izo doesn’t know what he expected Takechi-sensei to do when he was informed about the injury. He’d assumed sensei would be upset that he was injured. He didn’t expect that sensei would be upset with him for getting hurt.
“… absolutely useless to me with that arm as it is right now…” Izo hears in the background. Sensei’s voice is hard, unforgiving. It’s nothing at all like the voice that used to praise him and coax him into things he didn’t really want to do.
“Get out of my sight, you idiot, until this heals up.”
The doors slide shut with a bang as sensei leaves the room, leaving Izo behind. He can feel himself shaking like a scolded puppy. Meanwhile, the moth has found its way into the lamp. There’s an odd noise, a weird odor, and then he sees it drop down with burnt wings.
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