𝐂𝐇𝐀𝐏𝐓𝐄𝐑 𝐓𝐖𝐄𝐍𝐓𝐘-𝐓𝐖𝐎:
The unbearable heaviness of remembering
(1974)

(CW: Detailed memories of Corazon at the beginning of the war.)

A RAPID TAPPING OF PEN AGAINST WOOD could be heard by anyone with enhanced hearing, which means everyone in the house could listen to its continuous and intense beat—good thing that the family is out hunting, or else she would instantly hear Emmett's complaints. Corazon releases a heavy sigh, pursing her lips thinly into a line. Her gaze intensely focused on the journal with an unfinished entry in front of her. Her fingers glided at the edge of the paper while her other hand clenched tightly at the side edge of the desk. Her leg bouncing anxiously, she releases a heavy sigh again, filled with tiredness and despair. Her topaz eyes scanned the written words, words that she had reread for what felt like an hour, a day even.

I remember the sounds clearly in my mind: the blazing sounds of the sirens in the streets filled with frightened civilians, the military trucks speeding through with soldiers bearing firearms and voided eyes. When the skies went dark, we anxiously watched the planes pass by. As nightfall began, there were no signs of life or lights; it was chillingly quiet. The announcement on the radio was that the Japanese had begun their attacks and that the residents of the city should evacuate to the province. I didn't hesitate to pack my belongings and go home to my family. Only I wasn't even halfway through the exit of my dorm room when I heard the cries of the girls and the slashing of a knife against the skin, the struggling laboring breaths as they fought for air as blood filled their mouths—-

Corazon slammed her hand against the table as the sound echoed and bounced against the wall. She constantly needed to remind herself why she was writing this in the first place. Her hand went to her lower chin, roughly smoothing out her skin in an attempt to calm her raging nerves. It was too fresh in her mind as if the event was tattooed in every vicinity of her brain, every detail, every sound, every movement; she could still recall it like it all happened yesterday.

The newspaper headline felt twice the size as it stared right back at her,

"NANJING MASSACRE SURVIVORS ARE RALLYING FOR JAPANESE GOVERNMENT TO APOLOGIZE AND ACKNOWLEDGE WORLD WAR 2 WAR CRIMES,"

The Nanjing Massacre, or the Rape of Nanjing in China, is one if not the worst kind of inhumane massacre that is known to mankind, yet the Japanese Government has a wobbly recognition of what happened during the war. The mass killing, rape of thousands of women and children, the destruction and burning of buildings. The atrociousness and chaos got worse over time; increasing the number of mass graves made it difficult to find the precise count of casualties.

There was an apology, yes, and compensation for the victims. But it was insincere and forced; the victims of the war were not all asking for compensation — they didn't want what happened to them to be paid off, then act as if nothing had happened, as if the cruel acts didn't bury them halfway down.

It didn't add to their cause when their history books portrayed them as if they were the victims of the war that they had caused. Japanese education seems to lack an educational, humanitarian perspective. They twisted the truth and erased the version of history for every country that had rained their violence. It was sickening. It's offensive to the victims of the war who are still haunted by the past. After all, how could they move on when the aggressor of the war continues to neglect and dismiss them?

The three-hundred thousand death toll estimation over the course of two months is following their every move.

Corazon remembered hearing what happened in 1942 about the Bataan Death March, and she finally read the full news of the scope of what happened in 1943. She knew her brothers were part of the resistance movement—the Guerillas. The Bataan Death March had sixty thousand to eighty thousand Philippine and American soldiers who were forced to march for sixty-five miles through tropical conditions, enduring heat, humidity, and rain without adequate medical care, depriving them of food and water.

If a prisoner could not survive the march, they would be murdered, beaten, and occasionally beheaded.

And all Corazon did was hope that her brothers were not subjected to such cruelty and brutalness, and they were not. Corazon would admit that a tiny portion of herself had thanked god that day for sparing her brothers.

It wasn't only what they did to China and the Philippines that's being censored and revised in Japan's history books. It failed to say that the Japanese Imperial Army's sadistic nature puts the devil to shame.

Corazon wanted to bang her head against the table. She couldn't comprehend why she couldn't just write it! She places her left hand on the side of her face and leans on her elbow. The tapping of the pen continues as her tongue pokes out to the side of her mouth. She takes one more glance towards the newspaper, and she finally brings the pen to the half-written pristine page, the ink flowing effortlessly as she begins to write. Her cursive is elegant and fluid.

The next thing I knew, I was in a truck, with a sack around my head, then suddenly being dragged out of the vehicle. My feet touched the ground, and all I heard were crying and shouts of protests; I heard them begging to spare their lives, and I smelled the smoke from the corpses that they burned—the smell etched onto my nose; a burning corpse is the vilest smell I have ever encountered. It was like our version of hell came to life, and all the devils were there waiting for us. It was terrifying. When the sack was taken off from my head, a bright red house greeted me like a taunt. I heard a scream, and when I looked, it was like my heart was ripped out of my chest as a Japanese soldier forcefully took a baby from its mother's arms and impaled the baby with a bayonet, then the mother. I have worked as a volunteer in a hospital before. It was the first time I saw someone brutally die right in front of my eyes. Then I saw my surroundings being burned down to the ground: the homes, the schools. I heard it. I heard everything.

We didn't know what to expect, didn't know what to do. But what we did know is that these horrid men will not treat us nicely. I was proven correct; when they placed us inside the house and separated us into different rooms, the Japanese soldier tied my wrists and my legs. All I could feel was fear. The realization of cruelty dawned upon me when he smashed my head against the wall; he slapped me when I resisted; I had no choice but to listen. I had hoped that I would escape and return to my family alive, and I knew that he would let me live if I obeyed.

They had taken every shred of my dignity.

He raped me countless times, and I had forgotten where I was. I had forgotten how many soldiers entered my room and took their turns with me. My mind was a haze, my vision blurry from the brutal forces. I passed out that night, and I remembered waking up when a Japanese soldier began to untie the ropes around my arms and legs and then pushed me into the hallways along with the other girls. My body ached, I was bleeding, I wanted to cry, but I did not want them to see my tears.

We began the day by preparing breakfast for them, sweeping and cleaning the house, and scrubbing the rooms of our designated quarters. The bathroom did not have a door, so the soldiers watched us. The water washed away the blood, but it did not remove the bruises. By two in the afternoon, the soldiers lined up in front of my room, and all I could do was lie down and accept my fate—

Corazon's chest tightened as she let go of the pen as if it burned her hand. She pushed the journal away from her and started blinking rapidly as the memories began to flood her mind. Her gaze swept towards the pages, and all she wanted to do was rip it into shreds. She breathed heavily, mind feeling swirly as she gripped the edges of the desk.

She badly wanted to cry, but she couldn't.

"Hey," A soothing voice greets. Corazon snaps towards the direction of the voice and sees Rosalie standing cautiously beside the door frame. Corazon took a shaky breath and said it with a vulnerable tone of voice as she avoided eye contact with Rosalie and closed the journal shut.

"I thought you wouldn't be here until tomorrow. Are the rest of the family still hunting?" Corazon often schedules her journal entries when the family goes out for a weekly hunt. She didn't want them to witness her have an emotional breakdown, for Edward to read her traumatizing thoughts, or for Jasper to feel her pain and despair. She didn't want them to deal with the effects of what happened to her in the past because she knew it would break their hearts.

"I wanted to go home early. They're still out." Rosalie answered vaguely. In truth, she felt it in her gut that something was wrong. That she needed to go home, so she did, and she was right. She had witnessed Corazon's struggle and inner battle with her mind. She, too, knows the difficulties. After all, she has experienced it too. The memories are ingrained in their minds.

"Oh," Was the only word that Corazon could manage to utter.

"Do you want to watch a movie?" The invitation was surprising. Rosalie rarely watches movies. She prefers sitcoms like Maude that air on television. "Yeah, sure," Corazon answers. She was about to stand up from her seat, but then the journal seemed to capture her attention, and her gaze switched to Rosalie.

"Actually, do you mind if you read my entry today? It isn't finished yet, but —" Corazon rabbles as her hands waved mid-air with gestures.

"I'd be honored," Rosalie cuts her off with a soft smile. Corazon nods to herself as she clutches the journal to her chest, a bit nervous and reluctant, but she trusts Rosalie more than anything; she's like a sister not by blood but by choice.

"I'd like to warn you that it's about what happened to me in the Red House," Corazon informs her with caution. Rosalie gives her a curt nod. Her smile diminished as her lips pursed into a thin line. Corazon handed her the journal.

Rosalie acquainted herself with the sofa, crossing her legs as her fingers flipped the pages until she reached the journal entry for today. They shared a glance for a quick second as Rosalie focused her gaze on the page in front of her. She took a deep breath, and her chest rose and fell. Her eyebrows furrowed, her eyes moving quickly as she read the words. Corazon could see Rosalie take a few deep breaths here and there while closing her eyes to take a pause and continue to read the pages.

Until Rosalie closed the journal and placed it on her lap, her hands clasped together over the journal. "I think you should try a creative writing course," Rosalie tried to lighten the mood. It was another surprising gesture from her. Corazon chuckles as she crosses her arms to her chest as she leans back on the chair.

"Should I? Maybe next year, when we move," Corazon answers with the same light tone until the silence takes over, and Rosalie fiddles her fingers together.

Rosalie had heard of what happened to Corazon back then; it was when Edward decided to meddle because he had heard Corazon's thoughts. She knows what happens during a war and what it does to innocent civilians. She knows that Corazon's last years of her human life were unmerciful and vicious, but she also knows that Corazon hates pity.

Pitiness isn't the comfort that survivors need or want; they can keep the pity themselves.

"I think what you're doing is brave," Rosalie only said as she gracefully stood up from the sofa and placed the journal on the wooden desk. Corazon gives her a grateful look, "Thank you, Rose." Then Rosalie nods her head towards the door and asks,

"So, how about that movie?"

"What are we watching?"

"You pick. I drive,"