Wakizashi
by Laura Roberts

I've been trying to write a story about a wakizashi forever. Nobody knows what the hell I'm talking about, so I always have to start by defining my terms, like writing a mathematical proof.

So here goes.

The wakizashi is, “according to traditional samurai law,” only used to commit seppuku. And seppuku is, of course, the formal term for an honorable ritual suicide, or hara kiri.

In Japanese tradition, seppuku was carried out as an admirable form of suicide—the sort of thing a samurai would do if he were protesting an order given by his master, or attempting to atone for an unforgivable sin. To refer to this act as hara kiri (literally: “belly-slashing”) is to degrade the intent behind the act of disembowelment.

Interestingly, the less-endorsed (because more cowardly) method of taking a warrior’s life involves having a trusted friend sever the head from the body. Clearly, this quicker death would be devoid of the kind of suffering that ultimately redeems the dead man. Opening one's own stomach here proves also a kind of strength — the ability to destroy yourself fearlessly and without complaint once you have recognized the error of your ways. The simplest, most effective final solution of self.

To return to the wakizashi itself, Wikipedia also claims that it is occasionally used by a warrior, who holds it in his non-dominant hand whilst fighting with a katana (a long sword). Its main purpose, however, is to dispatch a dishonored samurai to his grave.

Keep all of this in mind when I say that, once upon a time, my boyfriend was given a wakizashi as a Christmas present from my father.

Perhaps my father did not know the history of the wakizashi, did not care much for Japanese culture, could not have been expected to understand the import of this gift. Perhaps he gave it innocently, with no message whatsoever, delivering it to my boyfriend with a smile that was entirely devoid of malice, wishing him a Merry Christmas most amiably. There are a million ways to justify, to defend, to deny this act its meaning, its power.

I cannot honestly believe that my father, an antiques dealer of some esteem, could have given such a gift without a complex understanding of what he was essentially suggesting to my less-than-perfect boyfriend.

It's no secret that he never liked Scott. Took one look at him and left the room without saying a word. When I asked him about it later, he just shrugged and said “The boy gives me a bad vibe, baby. Y'all stay away from that one.”

I never did put much faith in my father's advice.

And maybe the guy was no good in some stereotypical sense (he drank too much, smoked too much, loved other women more than he loved me), but none of that was a reason to hand him a suicide-sword and say “Impale thee, son, and redeem thyself unto this woman.” I've got plenty of party tricks for dealing with men like Scott, and I’ve never met a man who needed that kind of persuasion.

Still, Dad always was a character, sure did find practical jokes funny. He had a sense of humor the same shade as a starless night, too, and I suppose he thought this was another amusing way of getting his point across.

Oh, Dad, why didn't you ever like a single one of the boys I brought home? Sure, Scott was a fuck-up, not the marrying kind, but you knew I wasn't ever going to be the marrying kind myself. You knew I liked them all a little rough, a little mean, the same way I always liked my dogs. German shepherd. Rottweiler. Mastiff. Always ready to fight. Just needed the right hand to feed them, soothe them. Never quite sure when they'd turn on you.

So why couldn't you just let him be? He was nothing more than a dumb pup caught in the middle of a drive-by. He wasn't a samurai with a code of conduct that required readjustment. He wasn't even a ninja, the type to commit stealthy violence in the night and steal away before morning, leaving nothing but a trail of blood. He didn't deserve that, Dad, and you know it.

Why won't you confess that your wakizashi was for me? That you wrapped it in paper and delivered it to the obvious target, like that fucking fish the mob left for Luca Brazzi? Why lie, Daddy? You think I'm a failure, that I've ruined the family name, that I need to atone for some staggering sins. Tell me straight up, Pop. Don't you think I can handle it?

Yeah, I've been trying to figure out the ending to this story for a long time, and so far I've got nothing. Dad spears my boyfriend with a wakizashi meant for me. My boyfriend takes the hit, kisses me goodbye and never speaks to me again. My old man pretends none of it ever happened. And what should I say? That he ruined a relationship I had with a guy who was going nowhere? Thanks, Dad. Ultimately, you did me a favor. I would've preferred to end things on my own terms, but yes, you sped up the process. Now what?

Listen, babe: if you can pull that sword out of the wall where it's been buried up to its hilt since Scott left me, you win the prize. It’s my own little legend, so you can do with it what you like. Open up my guts or cut my head clean off. Maybe you’d like to press it against my throat, just for a second, just to see what the threat of violence feels like, to get a taste of the blood that thing has shed in its history. It doesn’t matter to me. Just get that cursed instrument out of my life.

BIO: Laura Roberts is the editor-in-chief of Black Heart Magazine (http://blackheartmagazine.com) and the author of the weekly sex column, "V for Vixen." She is currently working on her first novel, entitled Blowjobs for the Soul, in addition to a guidebook to the sexy side of Montreal.