“Why don’t you hate him?”
Someone had to ask.
(They had every reason to, knowing what he did to her.)
Japan had asked herself the same thing.
Over and over again until self-doubt wormed through her brain like an infestation.
A voice would say: Because you know you deserved it.
She’d shut it up and lock it away, that useless voice.
Was it… her conscience?
No, no. She killed that long ago.
“Do you think it was easy?” She would answer.
She remembered choking on resentment.
She remembered begging to unseen forces.
Crying did not change anything.
Hitting him did not make it better.
“Forgiving him was the hardest thing I ever had to do.”
Suffering was necessary.
Suffering had purpose.
“After the war, my future meant everything to me.”
It was all she had left.
Swallow the pride and the pain.
Make peace with him. It’s the only way out.
She killed a part of herself to secure her future.
Sacrifice was necessary.
You deserved it you deserved it you deserved it
She remembered the burn of defeat, of failure, of energy.
She remembered the sucking ache in her chest.
Her deadened nerves. Her broken bones.
But she remembered something else, too.
Something hidden in the settling dust.
Why don’t you hate America?
“He showed me the mercy I never would have shown him.”