Celebration of Life

Yes, even in my own pool of blood, I could not stop watching her. That pure and innocent joy with which she took our lives, I admit, mesmerized me.

It was only a few minutes ago that we were happy. Like children, we thought what we wanted, and did what pleased us. We went about our everyday lives like it was rightfully ours. She was, then, nothing but the flickering shadow the campfire casted on our ignorant faces. A means by which us traveling men would attempt to scare each other. A deep-seated desire to retain our youth and silliness.

Her existence, like the death she represented, was more foreign to us than the strangeness of life. Why we were chosen to live had never crossed our minds. We had simply lived, and lived simply. The possibility that it would all end just as simply was not, well, a possibility to us.

Imagine, then, how it appeared to me this moonlit night, when her innocent laughter innocently slaughtered all of us. How the arm of the one in front of me simply separated from his torso. The surprise of my comrades. The crisp sound of steel drawing from scabbard…

It was as if time had slowed for me, as I bore full witness to her beauty. Men dashed into view from the sides, pouring into the centre where she danced. Danced that fluid dance – where had I seen it before? Blood was spilling onto the ground, dyed a sparkling silver by the moonlight. The movement of her sleeves were so smooth, so elegantly it cut into our flesh.

She stretched out her arms to me. That radiant child, smiling so happily. The sword that swooped towards her took flight on its own, hand attached, as a burst of silver erupted from the assailant’s wrist. I saw the droplets shining, so round as they wobbled slowly through the air. Stretching, returning. Now round, now almost split into two, teasing me with their naturalness. The moon’s pale grin was reflected in every one (or was it my own bloodless face?). They dropped to the ground, and the child’s eyes, so full of warmth, turned to me. Sought me out.

I could not understand. Ribbons of desaturated red flew and flew. Like a well-designed fountainwork it erupted from our bodies, that essence of life. That omen of death. Warm, it splashed onto me as she skipped closer. It covered my left eye, but the lid did not drop. It stayed open, and I found my vision tinged with an ephemeral pink. The blood was just as warm as that smile of hers, how could it be? My heart ached for her.

And now, here I lie. My eyes barely open, staring at the dismembered hand in the foreground. How tightly that hand clutched the sword my father gave me… our family name engraved in its well-worn handle. Ah… what a fascinating feeling it was, to see my thumb over it, but not feel its familiar texture. Am I strange for thinking this? If I could move my mouth, I would surely smile.

And unfocused, in the background, the girl was playing. Jumping and leaping, splashing in the silvery water of life. It sprayed onto the silk that she wore, making flower patterns that repeated over and over. She cheered, and smiled, and laughed heartily, scooping up the bloody mud and flinging it, tucking her feet girlishly behind her as she jumped, into the air. They made a perfect arc, silhouetted against the moon’s benevolent light. And at that moment, my vision froze.

If I could still remember, I definitely would not forget. How full of happiness her big eyes were, turned towards the sky. The girlish laughter. The innocent airborne frame of that radiant child. If I could remember, I would not forget. This was unmistakably…

…her celebration of life.