He didn't know why.
He had been a heretic on the hill. God's favor was with his little brother, though the splendor that he was never did turn to look back at him. Not only the splendor worthy of being God's incarnation himself, but neither did the sage nor the neighbors look twice at him. No, it wasn't as if they cast him out by any means. It was just, just as his little brother was such a natural splendor, he naturally could not close the gap harmoniously.
He tried to conduct himself in the same manner as his little brother, the same as the others--perhaps to be even more piously than they--and he longed to be like him. None the less the distance between he and the world was laid out.
As to when that started even he did not know. Almost as if it were congenital, like some naturally born trait, as if since before the time his memory could reach that the relationship between himself and the world had been decided upon.
If he extended a helping hand to his unfortunate neighbors, the fact that he was stretching his hand out to them wounded them. If he withheld his compassion and rebuked them, the unfortunate neighbors would be driven further, and if he encouraged them he felt only further isolated and left behind. He knew that he must have been making some sort of mistake but he could not tell what or where that mistake was.
In his own way he thought quite earnestly, tried to fill in that gap between himself and the world but with his effort driving him in nothing but circles, his aimlessness only deepened that gap.
The world was in beauteous harmony. He yearned for such harmony but the moment he entered into it all of that harmony was put to waste. That was all the more reason he had to be alone. He was isolated in a corner of the green fields. The neighbors held pity for he who was in isolated, stretched out their hands to him to return to their harmony but because abiding by those welcoming hands would always and inevitably lead to their disturbance, at some point he would end up refusing even when that hand was stretched out to him. When he did, when he refused their aid, it was true that his isolated existence would continue but the neighbors would chastise him for that too.
The only one to see his existence as glad, to tell him it was all right to be was his little brother. His little brother's kindness, towards the world, towards him, was the normal course of operations. All adored his little brother as a man of compassion and character, and his little brother's existence brought for all, himself included, a blessed happiness.
Yes, indeed he was a blessing. As long as he at least had him then indeed he was satisfied, and as long as his little brother was there, or when when he waved his hand when he called to him, he was greatly satisfied.
Most of the time.
There were times when laying eyes on his little brother bore irritation. It wasn't towards his little brother by any means. When looking upon the tender shepherd within the green fields, he certainly did see him as a fond sight. Like a work of art upon a scroll, it calmed him terribly. None the less, the truth was there were rare times when looking over that scene that he became aware of himself.
His little brother stood in the field, and regardless of how such a thing brought him ease, when he became aware of himself watching over his little brother standing in the fields, he would inevitably fall into a dark and somber mood. His brother who lived in such a beautiful picture, himself who could never be within that picture, that separation decisively battered him.
The more beautiful that picture of his little brother standing in the fields was, the more harsh the result of that blow. He, absolutely unable to enter into the frame, could only be all too aware of that unscratched jewel of harmony. No, it was even worse than that. More than feeling the pleasure at that splendor, he had to be aware of himself as one who could never be within that in order to be accepted or denied.
Seishin stopped his pen.
It was wrong to blame Toshio. No matter how extreme it appeared, Toshio was acting as he thought best for the villagers. Without knowing what was right, afraid to take action and confining himself indoors, Seishin shouldn't have been qualified to criticize Toshio.
Just the same, Seishin couldn't excuse Toshio's conduct. When he became aware of his own incapacity, Seishin felt himself as a heretic.
(I know...)
Seishin looked down over the manuscript paper.
(I'm the one who's wrong.)
Toshio was alone in the waiting room overwhelmed with bitterness.
He knew Seishin's temperament. While annoyed with himself for running his mouth carelessly, at the same time he was also irritated with himself for taking that action that could only be called "imprudent" in the first place. He was vexed that they took the upper hand. Unable to avoid that irritation with himself, he couldn't help but worry about Seishin who had mercilessly blamed him for it.
"You think we can get by without playing dirty?"
Snorting in his heart that he'd been like that since he was a kid, Toshio left the waiting room. Entering the nurse's station on the second floor, he slammed the door roughly behind him. Now in the room Setsuko had been in until just the other day, Kyouko slept. Setsuko's death, Kyouko's outbreak, anything and everything was thought of as proof of his incompetence, burning in his chest.
While being overwhelmed by so many things, Toshio returned to the recovery room. Looking at the monitor, he could tell she was showing an irregular pulse. Kyouko wasn't doing well. He was treating her but she was already in the irreversible stages.
Is she gonna die, Toshio wondered. He'd foolishly overlooked the initial symptoms, and because of his failure to be careful with his own family his wife was going to die. While he would admit it was an outraeous situation, while he felt disgraced, he did not feel sentimental about losing his wife.
(I'm, not lamenting losing Kyouko.)
In the end he was this kind of person, he realized. Toshio couldn't call to mind why he'd chosen Kyouko as his wife in the first place. Even if he tried to remember the time between their meeting and marriage, it was lacking in any raw emotion on his part. Looking back on it now, he realized that it was nothing more than him not wanting his parents to choose a wife for him. He knew his own position. He had to return to the village and be his father's successor. And in doing so he could not leave the village without an Ozaki. So before his mother and father could force him into anything, he picked out a suitable woman with his own hand. He couldn't help coming to the conclusion that that was all that it had been.
"So it was mutual, huh..."
Toshio wore a bitter smile as he sat at Kyouko's bedside. It was Kyouko herself who said that as long as they were a doctor anyone would do. The first time they'd come back to the village, she'd said that when saying she didn't want to be holed up in the village.
As if to blame him, the heart rate monitor started to show signs of disturbance. He tried to treat it all the same but there wasn't much else that could be done for her. It'd have been best to report that she was in critical condition to her family.
Letting out a breath as he arranged the things at her bedside, Toshio stared off into empty space.
Kyouko was going to die, most likely. Even if it could be put off for a while, she probably wouldn't ever recover. Would the dead Kyouko revive?
For a while, Toshio looked down at his wife's face with her eyes closed, answering his own question. He tried thinking over the possibilities.
(In the end, this is the kinda guy I am...)
I'll never be like Seishin.
Murmuring that in his heart to himself, Toshio cleaned up her bedside area. He unfastened the juzu beads from his wife's wrist.
"Kyouko, I'm asking you." Toshio had never, until now, asked his wife from his heart for anything. This would be his first and last request. "...Resurrect for me."