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How does one do art when they're such a dirty, filthy creature?
Hanzo pondered that every single day. He's the perfect example. How does one live, after murdering so many? Was it murder if it wasn't by his hand? Everyone. He wondered how many men have passed away. The elders, his father (even if his death was much more complex, it was still his fault), the family-
His brother. That was his family.
Fuck everyone, fuck all of them, fuck Sojiro, fuck the elders- everyone except his brother. He loathed the name, the memories. Hanzo couldn't bear to. They could all rot, he could rot. That was his usual thought process whenever he picked up a blade. Even if it was for art. Art, such a beautiful thing. One could make such beautiful things. Those who would pick up a pencil to sketch, make such wonderful sketches, those that would make others stare in awe for centuries. Those who would pick up a paintbrush to create paintings, those who would pick up various tools to create works of art that Hanzo himself couldn't understand, but see the joy, the pain, the thoughts and feelings behind every single piece.
Those who picked up a blade. Though that could never apply to Hanzo, no matter how hard he tried. Those that have seen him - were they travellers, or those who lived in the areas he visited? Hanzo could never tell, nor did he ever ask. They always praised him, spoke such empty words. Was this art? No. It could never be. The intricate carvings, every single move of his knife - it could never become art. It would never get close. Most would never get the meaning behind these small pieces, behind anything he ever made. The memories, the pain. The fucking pain. It could never be art, it could never come close to such things. Those words and compliments were misplaced, Hanzo knew.
It was something he picked up by accident, really. Hanzo found himself in the wilderness, where no technology could help. It helped - finding peace in such pathetic things, such small actions. But Hanzo had his trusty knife, and a vague idea of how to make shelter and a fairly good living space for himself for a few nights. He used it, he used the god damn experience and knowledge he had from his elders. He carved a few sharp ends into the sticks and branches he found. And it helped. And it stuck with him. And nowadays, he seeked peace in it. Finding learning materials wasn’t all too hard. Which woods were good? Oak wasn’t. Neither was pine - Hanzo couldn’t quite recall what he did, plenty of whiskey clouded his mind. Yet he could remember the splinters, the fucking pain of having them in his hands. Why didn’t he use gloves? He could never remember.
It was deserved though. It could never be equal to the pain he caused.
Hanzo Shimada, what a sick joke. Disgusting, so disgusting. All these people who could look at him, they didn’t understand, they never could! All these people could never get what happened, what he- no. He didn’t go through anything. It wasn’t trauma, it wasn’t pain. He wasn’t the one who went through it. It was Genji. If he even deserved to say that name anymore. Nobody did. Hanzo was nobody, could he say it? He doubted it. He couldn’t, probably. Hanzo was too disgusting, he was nothing, he was awful, a monster! Monsters did not get to say the names of those whom they murdered. Killed was too light, too gentle of a word. It was a true murder. He didn’t get to.
Crack. Another move of Hanzo’s hand, and with that, the blade he used. What was he making? Nothing too difficult. A dragon. Most would call it a big project, a difficult thing to carve - with all the details Hanzo chose to add, how could it not be? Most people who saw him spoke to him. They called it beautiful, a true work of art. It could never be. It was the silent cry of a man. Hanzo could never be called a man, no. A creature. Even that was too high of a compliment. A monster? No, no! Even that could never describe him. Nor could the dragon ever be called a work of art. It was just a thing. An object. A piece of memory. Hanzo didn’t know why it stuck with him so much- he did. It was what he grew up with. His two dragons, his spiritual allies. Gen- his brothe- no. The man he grew up with, he had one too. The man? The boy? He never saw him grow up into a man. That was still a child, though in the body of a fully grown man. That man- boy. That boy, he mentally corrects himself as he makes another cut, never grew into a man. That boy was the embodiment of joy, of youth. That wasn’t a man. Hanzo scolds himself silently. That was not what he was meant to think about as he carves that dragon. Those dragons were what he grew up with, what the boy grew up with. They both had these. Why did the boy only have one? Was he weaker, stupider? What was it? Was Hanzo just exceptional in some way? If murderers were exceptional, then sure, Hanzo was exceptional.
Crack. A piece of wood falls to the ground. The beautiful pavement made of cobblestone, in an old town where Hanzo found himself a secluded spot. He knew he would not be accused of littering. Learning local laws could be the only way he could appear to be polite, good. Hanzo watched the piece for a moment, between all the cracks and cubes of cobblestone. It was just like him, in a way. Or it should be. He should be there, forgotten and ignored, stepped on like worthless trash. Trash that once represented something - a grand tree, so full of life! So beautiful, if seen from a distance, so- terrifying. So grand, so huge. One you could never climb. Hanzo was once part of it, until it withered and wilted. And now it could be carving material at best. Art, in general, though Hanzo was not part of that. Used in canvases, used in paintbrushes, in pencils. That was all it was worth for, and even that was too much, it should be cut down and burned, so nobody could ever make use of it again. Much like the others. Hashimoto. They were so similar, yet so different. Withering and wilting. They should be cut down too. That was not Hanzo’s job. He caused too much pain to ever be allowed such a wonderful act.
No, no. That was not what Hanzo was meant to think about. Think about the wood, now. The dragon is just about to be just as disgusting as he is.
Hanzo allows himself a moment to look at his new piece. He was so, so close to ruining it! Far too close for his comfort, he ruined so many things in his life, he wanted to at least keep this piece of carved wood as a well-made keepsake. For what? He didn’t know just yet. Too heavy to be a keychain, or a charm. Hanzo did not have a place to stay, one where he could display the dragon on a shelf. He didn’t deserve one, a monster like him could never earn one. He was damned, he was cursed to forever wander the world. Crack, crack, another piece falls to the ground, stuck right next to the previous. How Hanzo longed for this to be him and Genj- the boy. He was never a man, and Hanzo didn’t deserve to say his name. Why did this wood seem so weird, so bad? He was told it was basswood, so easy to dig a blade into, easy to make into beautiful pieces; Basswood did not splinter like that, basswood was much easier and more comfortable. At this point, Hanzo could confidently say the man who sold it to him scammed him. He deserved it. One could not carve such a symbolic piece into an easy piece of wood. It was a symbol filled with suffering.
Well, at least it was not pine. God damn pine. Those splinters. Hanzo was sure one of those small cuts would scar, he watched his hands carefully, with how he stared at them so watch, The hands that had blood on them. The hands that had Sojiro’s blood on them, Genji’s blood on them. The elders. Rumiko- was it his fault? At this point, Hanzo was convinced it was. It was always his fault. He was meant to cause pain.
Another wedge. Hanzo pushes his blade into the wood, watching another piece fall down. This one was good! The sculpture needed this one, Hanzo needed to make space. The head has to be separated from the body, he knew he could make this. It wasn’t all too hard, he could make it with the knife he had. And he did! He could feel proud of himself. Yet he did not. This was disgusting. This fucking figurine. It represented everything he loathed and resented. Was it his dragon, or was it the boy’s? Could Hanzo call him his brother? No, he could not. A brother was someone to be loved and cherished despite flaws. The boy was not loved, nor cherished. He was chastised, insulted, punished, not just by elders. By Hanzo himself, by Sojiro. Hanzo felt disgusted. He pushed that though away.
He focused on the wood. Crack, crack. Another piece of wood falls. Maybe it was pine, after all. Or rosewood? Fuck rosewood. It couldn’t be that. Ironbark? No. Birch? Too difficult to be birch. And too dark. Purpleheart? Not- well, not purple enough. At this point, Hanzo had no idea. Too soft to be overly difficult, yet too soft to be considered bad. It splintered like hell, though. Hanzo was silently thankful none of the small pieces went into his hands - the blade did, though, three times to be exact. One into his thumb, when he held on too firmly and pushed the wrong way. Always away from yourself, he scolds himself. That was his mistake. The second, into his pinky. Just a tad bit away, and it would miss. Most wouldn’t consider that their mistake, yet he did. Everything was always his fault. If he didn’t pick up this damn thing, it wouldn’t happen.The third one he didn’t even remember, though maybe that was good. Hanzo would give so much to forget. Everything. Down to his name, to wander the world, where nobody recognized him. Good. He should never be recognized! That was good! He wanted to forget, and maybe that’s why he would never receive such mercy. He was born to suffer. That suffering was nothing, when compared to those he wronged. Sojiro Rumiko, the elders. the boy.
The boy. That is… a suitable name. Hanzo was not a sibling; he could not call the boy a brother. He could never deserve to say, nor think that name. He thinks about it, though. He corrects himself. He never speaks it, more like. He could never say it out loud, Hanzo could never earn that privilege. Saying it is a privilege. Thinking? Hanzo has to work on that one. It’s always in his mind. He thinks about it, much like he thinks about his own name. Spoken that one time, barely a breath - a last breath. The look in the boy’s eyes that spoke of death, the trembling. The blood, the crimson all around. Maybe he should never use that name-
No. No. He deserved it. The boy did not. Hanzo was cursed with this name, not only his first but also the last. Shimada. He was a killer. He was part of the mafia - he could say it nowadays. This was mafia. Yakuza, it would be called in his parts, in his homeland. He helped, therefore this was his name, for all the suffering he caused. He was Hanzo Shimada. The boy deserved a new name, one that wasn’t tainted. Stained with blood and suffering.
Maybe he should make a spoon? Or a bowl? These objects are much more functional, mundane. These could not be considered pieces of art, could they? Not if they were made by Hanzo. They would never touch dishes he ate back at his childhood home. They would be simple - only meant for whatever he could whip up. Not something from restaurants. Maybe Hanzo should go back to the wilderness. Go back to hunting, like these few nights, those where he learned how relaxing this was. This art- no. This was not art. Art was not made by those who were meant to hurt. Art was not made by Hanzo Shimada.
He looks at the figurine he’s making. Nearly finished. A few more cuts, and he would be done. It could use some polish. Something like that, yes? Hanzo didn’t know much about the craft. If he got wood, he used it. Even if it was something like pine, or rosewood. Just not oak, it was such a pain. Perhaps someone else could use this piece. Love it, when Hanzo could not. With a heavy sigh, he puts the unfinished figurine on the bench he occupied for the last few hours. It was unfinished. A few more strokes of his blade, some oil - linseed oil, perhaps? - and it would be good. Maybe someone else could love this piece, when Hanzo could not. He hides his blade again, and walks away.
Perhaps it was time to find something new. This did not bring peace.