Requiem II: Soul's Honor Lost
"Laura," Caine whispered.
The woman paid him no attention at the whispered name. Either she did not hear him, or she chose not to respond.
"Laura, it is me," Caine said again.
The woman turned toward the man who carried the tray and spoke in a language unfamiliar to the Shaolin. She then turned toward the man who sat on the cot.
"I am not who you think I am," she spoke, her words came out haltingly. It was apparent that she knew only a sparse amount of English. She noticed when she had spoken, the stricken man became silent and sadness entered his eyes. It struck a cord in her heart and for a moment, she wished she were this 'Laura' that he called her. "My name is Tanya."
With the introductions over with, Caine lifted his arms and without saying a word, questioned her regarding the bandages.
"You were injured. There was much scarring. We tried to help."
Assuming that she did not understand about the marks on his arms and tried to heal them, Caine explained, "The brands are a symbol of who and what I am. I am Shaolin. They are a part of me. To try to heal them further would be fruitless. They have been healed for many years."
"No, I know of the Shaolin," Tanya stated. "There were other more recent cuts."
A puzzled look came over the priest. "I do not understand."
"You came to us, badly injured. The marks of the Shaolin are still present and yet, they were not. There were deep cuts, several, as if someone or something had tried to remove them."
Caine became speechless. Then he suddenly tore at the bandages as if his life depended on it.
"No, you must not. They need time to heal."
Caine, though, was undaunted. He kept tearing at the bandages until his forearms were once again exposed. His eyes fell on the exposed skin and could not believe what he saw. Just as the woman had tried to tell him, several cuts crisscrossed his forearms, nearly irradiating the image of the brands, the sacred symbols of his office. He swallowed the air that was lodged in his throat after realizing he had been holding his breath. Caine then wept for their loss, not understanding who would do such a thing, let alone how it was possible for someone to even get close enough. He would have been aware of it if someone had.
Caine lay on the bed, his head laying face down on the covers with his forearms upward and outstretched before him. How could this happen to him? Grief filled his heart and another emotion, one that he thought he had finally dealt with, hate; hatred for the one whom had mutilated him. As he lay on the bed, he suddenly felt a tingling at the back of his mind. He recognized it immediately then suddenly clamped down on it, building an impenetrable wall around himself and his shame. He could not allow his son in, not now, perhaps not ever, not in regards to this.
*Please, forgive me, my son,* was all he would allow.
End of Part 2
Alisa Joaquin Copyright@2000.
This story cannot be reprinted or sold in any other form without strict permission from
the author. It is being distributed here solely for your enjoyment.
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