The Language of Love

Seki had grown up in the shadows, where all he could see and touch was darkness.

He’d never had a home, not truly. He lived among a group of delinquents, strangers to themselves and to each other, who spoke the language of violence. Such a language had never strongly spoken to Seki. He’d watched men fistfight to the death before the time he was seven, and he never found those men to be awe-inspiring. They were nothing but brutes, seeking meaning and pride in their own meaningless lives by beating each other senseless. It was repulsive. They were all repulsive.

Still, Seki was silent. He observed the fights like all the rest did, and he did not object.

Love was never shown to him. Old Man Nico lent him books to read sometimes, and he always pondered the meaning of the word when he came across it there—love.

Love wasn’t like violence. It wasn’t tangible. It wasn’t something you could view with the eye alone. Love was felt in the heart, like hatred and fear were. Love felt right.

When Seki killed his first man, he felt love blossom for the first time. The man was a lech, a disgusting creep who wouldn’t stop staring him down with a terrifying look in his eyes, day in and day out. Love was the silence of the disgusting man’s face under his bloody knuckles, the relief that coursed through his veins when he stood up and stared at the unmoving body. Love was the cheers of the strangers around him.

This violence committed by him was not repulsive to him. This violence felt right. This violence had brought love.

Perhaps the two, Seki thought blankly, settling himself back into the corner with his book, may just be one in the same.