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8

A Drop of Rage

TATSUYA

T he next day, I pretended she didn’t exist. I moved through the temple grounds as if nothing had changed, as if my mind wasn’t a battlefield, struggling to make sense of everything that had happened the night before. As if I hadn’t just seen that look in her eyes—the one that reminded me of the rage I’d buried long ago. The one that told me she, too, was fighting a battle that no one could see.

I went through the motions—bowing, chanting, performing the mundane chores of the temple. The monks didn’t ask questions. They never did. They respected the silence I had built around myself, the wall I had carefully constructed over the years.

But that silence? It wasn’t enough.

I tried to center myself. To find peace again. The familiar incense, the quiet rhythm of the chants—none of it worked. My mind kept returning to her. To the way she moved, how she had fought back against the man last night. There was something in her, something fierce, something that made me think of my younger self.

I pushed the thought away, trying to focus on the calm I’d worked so hard to cultivate. But the harder I tried, the more the memories of my past clawed their way back to the surface, the more I was reminded of how much I hadn’t escaped after thirty-eight years on this planet. I had thought the temple would be enough to bury my old self, to bury the rage. But I was wrong.

I was still that angry kid, the one who had watched his mother be beaten and abused, the one who had stood by, helpless, as his father took what he wanted from her. I had been so small, so powerless. I had watched him drag her around the house by her hair, her face swollen and bruised, while I stood frozen, too terrified to move. I’d seen his violence, heard his drunken rages, and as much as I hated him for it, I hated myself even more for not doing something about it. When she died at his hands, I let him drag me to the temple as a sacrifice. Or, as he put it, surrendering a useless boy to a higher purpose away from him.

I stayed at the temple, letting him walk away from my life forever. I had chosen discipline, a life of order, as my escape. But in truth, it wasn’t a choice, though, not really. It was survival. It was the only way to drown out the pain, to forget the blood, the shame, and the helplessness that came with growing up in that house. But when I saw her last night—the way Momoi fought, the way she pushed him away—I had felt that rage again. The one I thought I’d buried deep within the robes of the monk I had become.

It wasn’t something I could hide anymore. Not from her. Not from myself. And that failing gnawed at my mind like a ravenous, clawed beast, scraping its jagged nails against the very walls of my skull. Each scratch echoed, reverberating through my thoughts, dragging me back into the murky depths of my past. The beast whispered in the darkness, taunting me with every misstep, every failure, turning every fleeting hope of peace into another stumbling block in my path—a never-ending, suffocating cycle I couldn’t escape.

“Tatsuya,” a soft voice cut through my thoughts.

I turned sharply, pushing the memories of my mother and Momoi aside, forcing myself to focus. The monk who had spoken was an older man, his face calm, a slight smile on his lips, his hands folded in the traditional gesture of respect.

“Is something troubling you?” he asked, his eyes searching mine with quiet concern.

I quickly composed myself, slipping on the practiced mask I had worn for years—the smile that was serene, measured. "No," I replied, my voice calm, even. “I’m fine.”

But he didn’t buy it. I could see it in his eyes. He didn’t press further, though. And for that, I was thankful. The last thing I needed was someone asking me questions I didn’t have answers to. The last thing I needed was to start explaining the chaos inside me.

“Well,” the older monk said, his tone suddenly turning thoughtful, “the lotus blooms most beautifully from the deepest and dirtiest mud.” He chuckled softly as if this were some kind of reassurance.

I nodded mechanically, masking the frustration that began to rise in my chest. Lotus. The damn lotus again. I had heard it a thousand times, a thousand different ways, but it never seemed to help.

“The world is full of suffering, Tatsuya,” the monk continued, eyes growing distant, “but one must be like the bamboo—strong but flexible, rooted yet swaying with the wind.”

Inside, my teeth clenched. I could hear the words, feel the weight of them, but they only made me angrier. How could he speak of the lotus and bamboo so easily when he hadn’t lived what I had? When he hadn’t watched his mother die at the hands of a monster?

I kept my face neutral, nodding once again, my voice tight. “Yes, of course.”

The older monk gave me an understanding nod, clearly thinking his words had soothed me. But I didn’t feel soothed. I felt suffocated. The calm I tried to cultivate felt more akin to a prison with every passing day.

As he turned to walk away, his words echoed in my mind. The lotus blooms from the mud... The bamboo bends, but it doesn’t break.

I wasn’t a lotus. I wasn’t bamboo. I was just a man trying to outrun a past demon that never seemed to let go.

The rest of the morning dragged on, every step feeling heavier than the last. My mind kept circling back to her—the girl who had fought, the girl who had reminded me so much of what I had left behind.

And, despite all my attempts to focus on my duties, despite everything I had tried to push into the back of my mind, I couldn’t stop wondering what had happened to her. Where was she now? What was she going through?

I wasn’t supposed to care. I was supposed to let go. But I couldn’t help it.

I needed to know more. I needed to see her again.

I wasn’t sure why.

And for the first time in a long time, I was afraid of what that might mean.

Later that afternoon, I found myself by the river. It was a place I came to often when I needed to clear my head. The current was swift, cold, and relentless, and it reminded me of the things I had left behind—my father’s drunken fists, my mother’s absence, the constant chaos of my youth. I didn’t come here for peace. I came here for the noise, for the rush of water that drowned out everything else.

I sat on the edge of the bank, watching the ripples, my mind a tangled mess of memories I’d rather forget.

And then I saw her again.

Momoi.

She was standing by the water, just a few feet away, her back to me. The wind tugged at her long, dark hair, and she looked lost in thought, or maybe just lost in herself. I could almost hear her bitterness in her stance, in how she clenched her fists at her sides as if she was ready to fight the world all over again.

I should’ve turned around. Should’ve walked away and left her to her self-imposed misery. But something inside me—the same something that had dragged me to this point in my life, to the temple, to the monk’s path—pulled me toward her.

I couldn’t explain it. And I didn’t want to.

“Do you come here often?” I asked, my voice calm, neutral, the same tone I used for everyone. But even to me, it sounded empty. Forced.

She didn’t turn at first, but then slowly, she faced me, her eyes narrowing. “What are you doing here?” Her voice was sharp, like a blade drawn too quickly.

The words I wanted to say—the ones that would make her leave me alone—stuck in my throat. I was supposed to be above this. Above her. But I couldn’t stop myself from stepping closer.

“Just trying to find some peace,” I said, offering her a smile that didn’t quite reach my eyes. I had to pretend it was fine like it always was.

But Momoi didn’t buy it. She never did. Her eyes scanned me with that same skeptical look, as if she could see through every bit of me.

“Peace?” she scoffed, arms crossed. “You’re as full of shit as I thought.”

The words hit harder than I expected. A wave of frustration, of anger, simmered beneath my calm exterior. The old me, the one I buried for so long, stirred. I wanted to snap, to let her know I wasn’t some kind of joke. I wasn’t playing the part of the monk for fun. I wasn’t him anymore.

But I swallowed the impulse, clenching my fists to keep it down. Control. Calm. Calm.

I exhaled slowly, my voice betraying none of the turmoil that roiled inside. “You think I’m full of shit?” I asked, keeping the edge of my anger out of my words. “I’m just trying to talk to you, Momoi.”

Her eyes hardened even more, her lips curling into a sneer. “Talk to me? What, so I should just be grateful? Should I thank you for playing the white knight? For saving me from some random creep? I don’t owe you anything.”

The words came out like venom, sharp and jagged, and they pierced through me more than I wanted to admit. The frustration, the heat building in my chest— it wasn’t supposed to be like this. She didn’t get it. She was the one who refused to accept help, refused to even consider that I was trying to do something good for her. It wasn’t supposed to feel like this.

“I’m not asking for anything,” I said, trying to keep my voice steady. “I didn’t stop that man to get anything from you. I did it because it was the right thing.”

“Right?” she hissed, her face twisted with anger. “You think you’re the right thing? You think I’m just supposed to swallow whatever good intentions you throw my way, and be grateful?”

Her words kept cutting into me. The old, bitter anger from my past—my father, the abuse, the abandonment—rose like bile in my throat. Was this how I had felt when I was younger? Every act of kindness, every small favor, always felt as if it came with a price, with the expectation of something in return. Just like him.

I clenched my fists tighter. “I didn’t ask you to be grateful. I didn’t do it for some kind of thanks.” My voice grew colder, harder, unable to stop the words once they left my mouth. “But you don’t get to accuse me of something I didn’t do. I’m not asking for your gratitude. Not from you, not from anyone.”

She opened her mouth to snap back, but I could feel my anger growing more volatile, the familiar rage pushing against the walls I’d built around myself. She didn’t get it. No one did. She didn’t know what it was like. She didn’t know how it felt to grow up, never knowing when the next betrayal would come.

“I’m not asking for your thanks,” I repeated, my voice quieter but more forceful. “But don’t mistake me for someone else. I’m not him, or whoever it is you’re thinking about.”

Her glare was unrelenting, and the silence between us felt thick, charged with something I didn’t quite understand. I should’ve walked away. I should’ve stayed calm. But instead, I could feel the walls of control cracking, the anger seeping through.

“You don’t have to fight me on everything,” I said, frustration creeping into my voice. “I’m not asking for anything from you. I just?—”

“Enough.” Momoi cut me off, her voice sharp. “I don’t owe you anything, and I’m tired of people thinking they can do things for me and then act as if I owe them. That’s not how it works.”

The words stung, more than I cared to admit. It wasn’t the first time I’d been accused of wanting something in return for my actions. It wasn’t the first time I’d been reminded of how broken people saw me. How broken I still was. I took a breath, but the air was too thick to fill my lungs.

“I didn’t say you owed me anything,” I said, my voice tight. “But you don’t get to make me out to be some kind of villain for trying to do something decent.”

She stood there for a moment, eyes cold and hard, daring me to say more. I didn’t. I couldn’t.

I couldn’t change her. And I couldn’t change what I was feeling either.

“I’m not here to fight,” I said quietly, forcing the words out as the monk’s teachings echoed in my mind. Control. Discipline. Inner peace.

She just laughed, the sound bitter and harsh. “Then why are you here?”

I didn’t have an answer for her. I didn’t have an answer for myself.

“I don’t know,” I said, my voice low. “I don’t know why I’m here.”

And maybe that was the truth. Maybe I hadn’t found peace. Maybe I had never really escaped.

Maybe I was just as lost as she was.