Sand That Cannot Be Washed Away

None of this was right.

This was meant to be a tour of celebration, a traveling parade meant to visit every village, town, and city in the prefecture. The people had given us so much, and this journey was supposed to show the citizens that we saw them, that we were here for them, that we honored them simply by showing up.

But now we were sitting in the middle of a barren desert, sand beating against our skin, strange noises rolling out of the heavy clouds gathering on the horizon. The others were laughing and passing around drinks as if they hadn't just massacred an entire village hours earlier.

I remembered the joy, no, the honor, of joining the Clan. My family was so proud the day I left. Another son off to serve Mexico. Another chance for our name to rise. And when word came that this village was to be erased so a more loyal settlement could take its place, I felt nothing but certainty. They had been labeled traitors, accused of giving resources and information to a rival Clan. That was enough for me. Enough for all of us.

“Treason has only one outcome,” my general had said. Her oni mask glinted in the torchlight, dangling from her neck. It was shaped like a serpent bearing its fangs, and her armor mimicked its coiling tail, wrapping around her shoulders and torso. General Chiyo was a woman who embodied order, and her certainty left no space for doubt. When she spoke, it felt as though the gods themselves were behind her.

The night before the attack, an uneasy silence settled over our camp, but I slept without issue. I believed fully in the Clan’s judgment. I believed in my duty. If treason was declared, then there were no other sides to hear.

But now that it was over, the only thing I had left was a nonstop screaming in my head and a tremble in my hands.

I waited, like the others, hidden inside one of our parade floats. Its paper walls showed a mural of the first Japanese envoy landing in Mexico generations ago. It was a symbol of unity, of prosperity born through struggle and blood. I traced the painted waves with my fingers and wondered if my ancestors had felt pride or regret when the Spaniards fell. I wondered if their hands had trembled afterward too.

As our float rolled through the village, expectation hung thick in the air. Some of the soldiers crouched beside me were excited, others tight and silent. But none doubted. Outside, the crowd roared with cheer. Children’s voices ran alongside the wheels, casting long shadows on the paper walls. They believed we had come to celebrate with them, perhaps even bless them.

Then the first horn blasted.

The fire-breathing floats in the front and the back now belched out rings of flame upon the crowds, sealing the villagers in and cutting off any escape. Fleeing would be difficult; our scouts had already blocked the side streets before the procession even began. It was subtle, but I heard the shift in the screams start, the pitch moving from excited to frightened. It was only a small change, but unmistakable.

The second horn followed.

Arrows rained from above as our archers released volley after volley into the terrified crowd. The cheering shifted again, now moving between animal and human. My brain kept changing the sounds, as if trying to protect me from understanding them. My stomach rolled. Something about the pitch of those screams struck a place no training had ever prepared me for.

Then came the third horn.

Our signal.

The samurai around me exploded upward, tearing through the decorated paper walls like beasts shedding skin. I was swept along with them, my sword drawn before my mind caught up. We descended on the villagers with the force and certainty of a storm.

The first man I struck down fit everything I imagined a traitor to be, strong, defiant, someone who would betray a Clan without blinking. He hardly fought back. The second person did not either. Nor the third.

It was the fourth one, an elderly man clutching a young boy, who made my arm falter. He did not look like someone who had plotted treason. He looked like someone who had been preparing breakfast that morning. Someone who had never imagined this could happen.

But when I hesitated, someone beside me finished what I could not. And then another. Each time I paused, another blade stepped in. The air filled with the wet rhythm of slaughter.

In the middle of the street, surrounded by bodies, something cracked inside me.

How could they all be traitors?

Is this truly justice?

Was I ever meant to question it?

Before today, “treason” had been a word, sharp, simple, absolute. A word my superiors wielded like a weapon, carving truth into whatever shape they needed. I had trusted them without hesitation.

But now the screams would not stop.

They twisted, gargled, and layered over one another until they became a single endless note buried beneath my skull. Even when the village fell silent, the sound continued within me, refusing to fade.

Now I sit here, staring at the approaching storm. Lightning flickers through the clouds, illuminating faint shapes. The older veterans claim they are desert demons, spirits that wander the dunes looking for souls too weak to go on.

The others still drink and laugh around the campfire, retelling the attack as if it had been a glorious battle, as if they had defended our lands with honor. Pride pours from them, fueling the fire and sending sparks spiraling into the darkening sky.

But their honor is my horror.

I can feel every grain of blood-soaked sand clinging to my hands. I know they will never be clean again. The storm edges closer, its winds brushing my face like a warning or an invitation.

No one ever told me that guilty people scream the same as innocent people.