-1"What kind of name is Anko?"
Her father wanted to call her Haruka after an obscure younger aunt everyone hoped had died years ago. Her mother wanted something sweet - Annaberri strolling along the shore waiting. Annamorri with her belly swollen by the sea eyes the color of apathy. Her grandmother said call her Anko and dropped dead on the floor stone cold.
Okay so that's not what happened.
Firm hands on a round stomach, "What will we call her?" Sound fingers on a fragile hand, "Haruka?" Tears and the ripples of a sharp crack of skin on skin. "My daughter is not a whore!" Silence and shame and anger and fear. "She was my friend -" "She was your mistress and I will not have my child bare her name!" Soft hands running over the soft hair as the door swings open enough silently. "Her name is Anko." Scream as the child sleeps.
But if it had.
The aunties tsked identical heads mournfully sweeping side to side as they held their sleepy eyes wide. "It's not right letting a ghost name a child. It's bad luck! She'll never be happy." The aunties, her father's family three of a third child born blind. Witch aunties with licorice scented fingers and eyes like a mole's - boiled white.
Instead.
The aunties tsked identical heads mournfully sweeping side to side calculating eyes as narrow as their faces. "You ought to kill him." And the baby is all of a week old too old to be a nameless it. Her eyes a focusless blue. "I still love him." And the aunties laugh looking nothing alike with their miscut black lockes and their second-hand frocks. Their type is not one welcomed in Konoha. "Will you love him when he comes after that child in your arms?" After this her aunts will be two ghosts watching carefully from a distance. Too bad they hadn't watched carefully enough.
As it was.
White fingers on her nape that spell "so" - so long, so now what, so-rry. "Anko." Breathed upon her sweaty nape and she can see the way she might have been cold and carefree a cat capable of beating, of eating the snake. Swallowing it whole. A taste like chestnuts in her mouth and his chilly hand cups her sex. "Anko." And she sighs seeing a pretty little girl all smiles and curls. Mama didn't want a solider.
Daddy didn't want a whore. "Kunoichi are whores who kill, cowards with cunt!" Yet she sees herself in his eyes, barely dressed and a terror to be reckoned with. If she looks close enough she sees hot pants and a mesh shirt, sees the weigh of her manhood and the mounds of her breasts. She never looks closer then she feels comfortable. Mommy doesn't want a freak.
Really what it was-
She learned to hurt, to break, to compartmentalize young. She learned to listen, to watch, and to sit like a log, like a snake silent and still. All that and it had nothing to with natural talent or trying to upset anyone. It was trying to stay alive and sane. It was cousins who'd learn the hard way that Uncle Washima wasn't to be trusted and didn't need a broken baby cousin. It was not wanting to fracture a doll-like mother; it was wanting to protect them both. It was following the path laid by an old woman's walking ghost.
And so it became a man with pale skin and strange eyes. Became a father-figure she could love. Became something uncomfortable that she couldn't escape. Became a mile-wide scar across the dross of her life. And yet it was as inevitable as the day she met him watching the birds take flight from the trees. "Do your parents know where you are child?" Demon eyes and a strange smile, a shame she'd never thought to look at her father's. Just the same but how would she know?
So then what did it matter -
Scrapped knees and splintered wooden figures, "Dammit Anko doesn't climb trees!" Split lips and lost teeth, "Why aren't you more gentle?" Pulled hair and torn shirts, one day pulled hair and torn skirts bloody thighs. Her momma's eyes say please I don't want you hurt but her face says "go" do as you wish and her hands are simply full of hatred.
What did it matter -
"Stop being such a little whore!" And grief-wizen hands are tight around her slender little neck. Breath heavily-scented with whiskey washes over her face. She closes her eyes not wanting to see the slow, unconscious tears trailing down a face as rigid as the Hokages'. The woman is no one who matters and her hands are too weak for the deed.
She washes the bloody from her face and hands the house a box of flames around her. He doesn't even ask when she shows up at his door. She returns the favor when she leaves the village with him on an unending trip to the sea. How could she know?
What did it matter -
Not knowing your past.
What did it matter -
Forgetting more then you'll ever remember or even misremember.
She knew her name well enough anyway.