Okay! Here I am with my first ever Naruto fanfiction! Oh yeah, I rock! I know what's going to happen in the next two chapters I've planned ahead, boo yeah! and so I probably won't take VERY long to update. I might take very long to update, but not VERY long. . I'm so mean.
Anywho, this story is about a girl and Kakashi. Oooh, I wonder who the girl is! . You can pretend it's you if you really want... -drool- Hell, I want to pretend it's me. . I'm such a sick pervert. BOO YEAH! Sick perverts UNITE! We shall build an empire I tell you! An empire of sick, perverty goodness! SICK—
Bob: Hi... I'm Nisha's muse. Nisha can't continue her... talking right now because she's... busy. I had nothing to do with it. Go read the story. You know you want to. . -in the distance you hear Nisha screaming something about perverts-
Initial Beginning
"..." Speech
Italics Thoughts
Italicized Bold Inner Self
shmoo... die by my hand oh evil cooked cauliflower! A/N's
Disclaimer: I don't own Inuyasha, Uh... Naruto. -cough- I meant to say that.
Without Purpose
Chapter One
I dream of rain I dream of fire
I dream of gardens in the desert sand
I wake in pain
I dream of love as time runs through my hand
These dreams are tied to a horse that will never tire
Sting; Desert Rose
I lay quietly on the bed, breathing slowly, evenly.
I pause to think: Am I going to do it tonight?
I'm lying on my side with my legs curled up beneath me on a very firm mattress, a very, very, VERY firm mattress. My mast—husband won't sleep on soft mattresses, he says that they ruin your spine. He's lying next to me. Breathing in and out... in and out. I can hear him. I can tell if he's faking or not; he's not. I almost smile, almost but not quite. I'm still not too good at showing emotions on my face. It's so hard to go against a sixteen-year-old habit.
I shiver, but it's not because I'm cold; the room is warm, and even though I don't have any blanket (my mas—husband is using it all, I expect it's just laced around his legs) and even though my nightgown is tiny, I'm not cold. I shiver just to double check if he's sleeping or not; he's not.
I'm wearing a nightgown... a nightgown! I don't really like nightgowns. It's actually pretty nice. It only goes down to mid-thigh and that kind of annoys me. It's pink... that kind of annoys me too, but my mast—husband says that it looks nice, so I wear it. I like making my m—husband happy.
Husband. The word rolls about my mouth and never comes out. It spins around in my mind, enters my mouth, and never leaves. I have yet to call my husband just what he is to me out loud. Never once have the words "husband" graced the air about my lips and swung past his ears, or anyone else's ears for that matter. In the few introductions I've gone through, it has always been, "That's my... my-" and then I break off and look embarrassed. I guess I kind of am embarrassed. Just what I'm embarrassed about is beyond me. The person I'm talking to either gets the idea or gives different questions to me. Usually they ask, "Your fiancé or your husband?" and then I nod, saying, "The second." But sometimes he's there behind me with his hand on my shoulder and he says it for me: "I'm her husband."
Always, I speak in my head but never out loud; another habit that's I got after sixteen years of hard work. Five years is not a lot of time to break a habit that stood strong for sixteen years of my life... not a lot of time at all.
I finger the spaghetti straps of my nightgown. They're edged in lace. The entire nightgown is a slip of pink silk edged in white lace, and not that crappy low-grade stuff; my nightgown is made of the finest materials. It also smells like green tea. I don't like green tea.
Oi... It's time to do this. I reach my arm out and put my hand between the mattresses. My hand grabs hold of a shuriken; nope, that's not what I want. I dig in further and my hand closes around the handle of a knife. Oh yeah... this is what I want; a long, beautiful, deadly dagger. I pull out the dagger and hold it in my right hand.
I know what it looks like; I've spent so much time staring at it that I've memorized its look, its feel. The handle is stunning, as is the blade. It's a gorgeous weapon, commissioned for me, for my own use, by my ma—husband. The blade is pure steel... okay, not pure steel. There's gold and silver filigree in it; they've been worked into it in simply extravagant curls and waves. I don't know how anyone could have made a blade of steel with silver filigree... I didn't know that it would stand out. I mean, silver and steel are the same colour. The handle is black, so black that I don't know what it's made of. I think it might be a rock, a shiny igneous rock. It shines wherever it is, even in the dark, which is kind of weird. I like the way it feels in my hand: slick, smooth, hard, and strong. It's a beautiful thing, really. A beautiful thing used to kill other things.
Rats... this is hard.
I sit up, aware of what I am doing. I pull back the layers of thick draperies surrounding the bed. In case you haven't noticed, this is a canopy bed. The draperies are a rich, dark reddish maroon and are smothered in gold tassels and woven through with golden thread.
The bed and myself, those are the few things that my mas—husband spends excess amounts of money on. The bed and I are the only things that he really... that he really... likes. The bed is mahogany, made of the oldest, strongest trees from a forest far away, located by the edge of the earth. Okay, so it's not that far away and maybe the earth doesn't have an edge, but you get what I mean. The bed's curtains are a deep crimson red, but you can't see that from the outside. On the outside, all you see are thick white curtains, embossed with gold designs. It looks like a white bed, but once you open the curtains, you realize that there are two layers of drapes; one light and one dark. He didn't need to do that... but he did... He buys me things that I don't really want or need, too, but I use them anyways, just to make him happy. Like this nightgown, I'm sure it cost a fortune but I would have been just as happy, if not more, in an old oversized t-shirt and shorts.
Or, better yet, an old t-shirt of his and a pair of his shorts!
Ehehehe... yeah...
Or even better! You could just wear–
AH! Shut up! This is not the time to be dirty!
Uh... yeah... I talk to myself. Don't deny it, you know you do it too. I just like having a second opinion for myself. One would think that at twenty-one that little voice would die down, right? Well... one thinks wrong.
Anywho... clothes! He buys me tons of them! There are all of those gowns he keeps getting sent in. I have at least a bazillion and how many suits does he have? How many? Two. TWO! If he can survive on two suits, why can't I survive on two dresses? Gah... My old masters never used to buy me so much stuff. I had two sets of clothing. One to wear for one week while the other was washed. If I ever needed "nice" clothes, like ball gowns, or kimonos, or anything like that, I'd be given it. I just never got to keep them. I did, however, get to keep my store of makeup and my equally loved arsenal of deadly weapons. Those I got to keep in a backpack in my room until I needed them.
I step up and out of the bed and walk through the curtains. I shut them behind me and look around the room. There is a balcony situated a few paces ahead of me. Thin white curtains with gold thread running through them usually hide it from view, but tonight I had made sure to leave them apart so that I wouldn't make any noise getting out. They were pulled to the side by golden ribbons.
Balconies...I love them and I hate them. I hate them because they allow in the noise from the streets below; they allow in burglars; they make the house seem weak; they let birds the right to poop on the floor I might walk on. I love them because they let in the sounds of nature; they allow in sunlight; they give me a place to sit and contemplate random things; they allow moonlight to stream into the room. And that's what's happening right now...
Moonlight hits the floor in breathtaking patterns, obscured only by the panes of glass in the balcony doors. Sometime I wish we could just keep the doors wide open and let the moonlight slide in, but that's a silly idea. What if something, or someone else slid in along with the moonlight? That wouldn't be very nice.
I've always wondered if moonlight had a special property in it; I think it does have one. I'm not sure what it could be, but it's soothing to some and harmful to others. I stretch my arm out and let the moonbeams hit my skin. I like the way my skin looks like in the moonlight. It's so... I don't know.
I take a glance around; I want to see what else the light of the moon illuminates with its ghostly splendour. The moonlight illuminates a stack of papers on a desk. A pen sits upon the stack, holding them in place. I have to write on those before I go. Thank you for reminding me, Mr. Moonlight. I bow my head in silent thanks to the moon for a minute.
I take a deep, shuddering breath and begin to circle the bed, allowing my hand to run across the curtains and watch as they ripple beneath my touch.
Ooh... ripple, ripple.
I'm captivated by things that move and more than just a little wary about them. Call it a reflex, call it stupidity, call it instinct, call it whatever you want, but my wariness for things that move has saved my life and others' many times. Of course, I don't really care about the movement that I'm making as I run my hand across the curtains, but it does catch my attention for a while. The drapes are so soft and white and flow under my hand like water.
I can hear my feet thud gently on the carpet that the bed rests on. It's soft, fuzzy, and consists of a lot of weird looking dark red and deep green circles. It compliments the bed very well and stands out well against the light wooden floor.
I reach the other side of the bed and open the drapes. I step inside and shut the drapes behind me, trying to block out any light. Then I realize that I didn't fully close the drapes on my side of the bed. There's a slant of moonlight flowing in through the gap in the curtains. It falls over my mas—husband and lights up his face for me.
Rats...
Oh well, it's probably better this way. I can see him... I didn't want to, but I now I have to.
I sit down on the edge of the bed and put my dagger on the floor. I lean over my husband and watch him sleep. The blanket, as I suspected, is wrapped around his legs and doesn't cover his chest. It's a nice blanket and it matches the colours of the drapes and sheets. The sheets and comforter (and pillows for that matter) are all either a deep maroon red or a dark forest green. It's all very rich and soothing and heavy and opulent. My mas—husband, (HUSBAND) chose them. I didn't know he had it in him... They're all really soft too, which is nice.
I smile down at the blanket twisted up in his legs.
Stupid loser...
I like my husband, really, I do. It's just that sometimes he's such a monkey fart. I smile; only I could think such words at my age. I'm old; well, not that old. I'm only twenty-one. My husband isfourteen years older than me. But he's not a pedophile, I promise. He may be a pervert, but he's not a pedophile. I married him because... I had a choice. I don't like choices. I really, really, don't like choices. I mean, I REALLY don't like choices
I hope I made the right choice...
I haven't really grown up in the five years since I've met him. I mean, I've grown taller and stuff, but okay, let me rephrase this. I've grown in so many ways, but my mind still thinks like a child sometimes, a very overgrown and developed child with destructive powers and an intense knowledge in the art of seduction, but a child, nonetheless. When I'm mad, I call people weird things... like hot dog head and monkey butt and...
I trail off as he takes a deep breath while he sleeps. I watch his chest rise and fall. There's a chain around his neck, a silver chain with a small silver rectangle hanging from it, kind of like a dog tag. He never takes it off... even when he's sleeping. You can't notice it when he's awake; it's always tucked under his clothes. I don't really care if it has anything written on it, or rather, engraved upon it.
What a loser...
I place a hand on his chest. He's warm; he's always warm, even in the rain...
I run my hand through his hair, lightly; I don't want him to wake up, I just want to remember him. I contemplate pulling out one of his hairs to remember him by and decide not to; not only is it a messed up idea, but he'd wake up for sure if I did. His hair is grey and silver and white; there is not a strand of black in his hair. But his hair didn't change colour recently; his hair was like this when I first saw him... five years ago. It still sticks out over his left shoulder. It's weird, I thought that it would go away when he slept, but it doesn't, it just kind of... sticks there. I think it's kind of cute.
No, you think it's SEXY! Damn sexy!
EEEEeh... go away! I'm TRYING to have a moment here! This is going to be the last—the last time I ever...
I break off and my inner self tries to calm me down.
I know... sorry... Just trying to—
Lighten the mood... I know... I know...
I know.
I know that this is going to be the last time I see him alive. This is the last time I get to see my beautiful saviour... master... lover... caretaker... husband... alive. He's these things and more to me. He is my salvation and my curse. It's not his fault this is going to happen, it's mine; I am a weak person unable to follow his orders, his orders that go against everything that I stand for and everything that I believe in... his orders to be free.
Damn... I didn't know it was going to be this hard.
Crud bucket...
I let my hand trace over the scar on his left eyelid. It runs vertically from his eyebrow to the upper part of his cheek. It's thin and red and sometimes I wish I could wipe it away for him but I know that I can't. My hand trails over his forehead from left to right. I sigh. This is hard. I can feel the tears welling up in my eyes.
Damn you, you dirty hot dog! How dare you make me feel things for you and your sorry ass!
I have a weird way of showing my affection for others. I like to insult the people that I like. Maybe I think that it'll make me stop liking them. I don't know. I don't know a lot of things.
I take a deep breath and shut my eyes. I open them and his mask is still in place. Did I tell you that he wears a mask? Well... he does. It covers the entire bottom half of his face. You can't even see his nose. Everything from below his eyes and the beginning of his nose to the area under his chin is covered. I never wanted to see under it; if he wanted to show me, he could have... but I guess he never did want to. I'm kind of glad he hasn't tried to show me actually. If I knew what was under it... I'd probably be disappointed; he's perfect in my eyes. Hell, in my eyes he's a god. He has... friends, if you can call them that, that always try to sneak a peek under his mask every once in a while when they get bored. I don't think anyone has ever seen under his mask. I wonder if he remembers what's under his mask. I don't want to see under his mask; I like him just the way he is.
I want to remember him just the way I see him now... with his eyes closed, peaceful, breathing lightly, his mask in place. I tug the edges with both of my hands, making sure it's secure on his face. I kind of like his mask, I think its cu—I'm not going to finish that thought. If I finish that thought, my inner self is going to jump in with a weird comment and ruin the mood.
I put my hands on the mattress, on either side of his face. Thank god for firm mattresses, if this had been a soft mattress, he would have woken up 'cause the weight I'm putting on my hands would have made his head sink down into the mattress. I smile ruefully. Slowly, I lower my head to his, eventually placing my forehead to his forehead, my nose to his nose. I stay like this for a while; I want to remember him, I really, really do want to remember him. I wonder if he will remember me. I shift a bit and kiss his lips through his mask.
Uh oh... I feel tears coming out. Uh oh... I open my eyes and they fall to his eyelids. I freeze. Dirty crap-olla... I watch as he continues to breath lightly, not noticing the tears on his face; the tears that aren't his tears but leak to the corners of his eyes and trail down the sides of his face as if they were his own. The tears that... I cry for him and for me. He doesn't notice them at all. He can be such a dunce sometimes.
I breathe a sigh of relief and shut my eyes. I tried to do this a few days ago. I tried to do it and when I kissed him, he woke up.
Groar, that was so not fun.
He woke up and looked at me weird. I'm not sure how to describe it. It was like a 'What the hell do you think you're doing?' look and it made me blush. Then again, it could have been a 'Tehe, what are you doing?' look, but I don't know. It's kind of hard to tell what someone's look looks like when half their face is covered with a dark blue mask.
And I don't blame him for giving me that look. I mean, there I was, straddling him, giving him a kiss in the dead of the night with my hands on either side of his face, while he was ASLEEP!
Ack! I looked like a whore or worse, a rapist!
Well... technically, I can't be classified as a whore 'cause we're husband and wife, and so, if I did kiss him, well it was okay. And besides, you're not a whore if you kiss someone. But I wasn't really thinking then, so the first thought that ran through my mind was that he was going to call me a whore and divorce me and then things would really start to get bad.
But all he did was raise an eyebrow at me.
Ehehehe... Uh...
And then he pushed a stray strand of hair away from my flushing face. I didn't know my face could still blush, I thought that I pushed that reaction down a long time ago; apparently, I hadn't. Ah, the things you learn in the middle of the night with your mas—husband.
I was about to say something, probably something incoherent and along the lines of: "Uh..." but I wasn't given a chance to make a bigger fool of myself. Instead he did something that kind of made me freak out a bit. He kind of sat up; threw his arms around me; flipped me sideways so that I was lying on the bed next to him, facing his chest; and then he hugged me while he fell back asleep.
You know how people wrap their arms and legs around things while they sleep? Well, that's what he was doing to me. And all I could do was blush and feel stupid while staring at his chest until I fell asleep.
I felt like a giant teddy bear; a giant, flushed, embarrassed, loser of a teddy bear.
Of course, at that time, the knife was still on the rug and I was trying to figure out what to do about it and what to say when he asked me about it. I couldn't lie about it; I never lie to him, ever. But, he didn't say anything about it the next day and I didn't say anything either, even when I found the knife lying on my side of the bed when I went to sleep the next day. I wonder if he knew what I was trying to do.
Mm... Memories. I snap out of my reverie and wipe my tears away from his eyes. I kiss him again, on his forehead though.
Eh... This is hard...
I can't stress that enough times.
This is SO hard.
I get off the bed and stand up. I bend over to get my knife. Then I duck down when something comes flying over the side of the bed.
OH HOLY MACKEREL MOTHERFUCKER! BITCH, WHORE, SKANK! OF DOOM!
I knew it! I knew I couldn't do it! I knew someone was going to find me out and throw a shuriken at my head! I rolled over onto my back so that I could throw my knife out. And then I realized that it was justmy mas—husband's arm that had come flying out at me so that it could hang over the edge of the bed.
EEEEeeeeeeeeehhhhhhh...
...Uh...
Aha... so my inner self knows when to shut up...
Still on my stomach, I crane my neck up, tilt my head, and kiss one of his fingers.
What a loser... what a big fat shit-inky loser.
I roll up the draperies at the side of the bed and slide beneath them. I stand on the other side of the drapes and tilt my head; I can still see through the gap in the drapes.
Holding my dagger in one hand, I speak softly, softly, under my breath, so quiet that I doubt that even a butterfly could have felt the air slipping past my lips. I curl my tongue around the words as they slip out of my mouth. I hope I can do it... I should be able to do it, there's no one here to hear me.
"Good-bye..."
I'm going to say it... I'm going to say it... I'm going to say it... My husband. C'mon, say it!
Yeah! Say it! It's two bloody words! Three bloody syllables!
I shut the drapes and my heart is beating so hard, so very, very hard.
I didn't say it.
My face falls. My heart beats erratically. I feel like I've just run a marathon or something.
I can't say it... I won't say it! I want to, oh, I really, really want to say it... but I can't. I just can't!
Damn it...
I patter around the bed, clutching the dagger between my breasts, trying to still my beating heart. Still breathing hard, I shut the curtains on my side of the bed. I take a deep, shuddery breath.
Damn it...
You can't even do it while he's SLEEPING? There's no one bloody—
There! I KNOW... I know...
My eyes sting with unshed tears. Don't you hate those? Those nasty unshed tears that you try to force back... those suck. They're lazy butt monkeys if you ask me. But you didn't.
I tread softly over the white rug, forcing down a hiccup. The rug reminds me so much about clouds, about cotton, about sheep... I walk off of it and tread carefully over the tan floor. I grab the stack of papers from the desk and the pen as well and make my way to the balcony doors.
The balcony doors are double doors, French doors, I guess is the right name for them. They're pretty... They're not really doors, though... just windows stuck in doorframes.
When I told my mas—husband what I thought about the doors, he snorted. I didn't know that he could snort. I thought he was above that kind of stuff. Then again, he reads that porn manga, what's it called? Oh yeah, Icha Icha Paradise... or something like that. That's strange; I haven't seen him with it lately... not ever since we got married... odd. I wonder where he hid them. What a loser, hiding his love for porn from me. Meh, it's not like we're really husband and wife... I mean, we are married; we just haven't... had sex yet. We've been married for about a year now and we haven't had sex...
Don't think about that.
Good idea.
I open one of the French doors and slip outside.
EEEeee... It's COLD.
Well... I'm not sure what I'd been expecting, I mean... it is the middle of the night and I am wearing a teensy, tiny nightgown. I place the stack of papers on the floor and place the pen on top... I hope it's heavy enough to act as a paperweight. Oh, wait; I have my blade in my hand. Ah ha... I could use that as a paperweight. I place the dagger next to the pen and hope it will stay down.
In my mind... I think that a short sword is mightier than an ink-spewing pen. I mean... in a time of danger... would you grab the pen or the knife? The knife, duh! Unless if you had some weird, killer Ink-no-jutsu that blasts enemies with ink straight into their eyes and spews down their throats so that they die by chemical indigestion. Now that would be a cool jutsu... I wonder if it's possible.
The tiles are cool beneath my feet as I walk around, pacing in unnatural shapes. Tiles... red tiles, bright red tiles with grey grout holding them down. I squat and press a finger to one of the tiles. I feel old and dull... the opposite of these new, shiny tiles. I sometimes think that I am a tile... that I am a tile and that I have grout holding me down. Three times in my life, the grout has been taken away from me, once from my birth mother to Master who was later named Old Master and now holds the name of Oldest Master... once from Oldest Master to New Master who now holds the name of Old Master... once from Old Master to my mas—husband.
I wish... I hope I can break away from the grout that holds me to my new master—husband, husband.
Husband, woman... HUSBAND...
HUSBAND! He's called your... husband...
I make my way over to the railing and sit down. The railing is far enough off the ground that I can shove my legs between the bottom of it and the ground. My ass is cold, that stupid nightgown rode up when I squished myself between the railing and the tiles. The bars are wide enough so that I can place my head through them, but not so much that my shoulders will slide through them as well. I press against the cool, metal bars and wonder briefly if they can support my weight. I hope they can, or else I will be stripped from my grout and shattered into a bloody pulp at the bottom of a two-story drop; or I could just end up with a broken leg or two.
The moonlight beams over my legs as I swing them to and fro. The ground below is dark, unknown to me in this lack of light. I think I know what's down there... I'm just not very sure. It's too dark to see... it's too dark to see anything down there. I know what's down there in general... there's a pool. What it looks like, how deep it is, that I can't remember, and it's too dark to see. I wish I had more light... no, no I don't wish for more light. I stare down into the bleakness... deep into the bleak darkness of which I have only a bare knowledge of. It reminds me a lot about myself and the rest of my life... I know that there's going to be... living... but that's pretty much all I know about it.
I push myself into the cool metal bars and shut my eyes. I let my mind drift back... back to the first memory I have of my mast—husband... well... almost the first...
I shut my eyes...
I am not asleep...
I am not asleep...
I am awake...
I am awake...
I...
I awake to an unfamiliar setting; oddly enough, I'm not really surprised. The first thing that my eyes catch sight of is the ceiling; it isn't vaulted, there isn't any extravagant trim, and there are no ornate mouldings reflecting the vast opulence of the rest of the room. It's just a boring, whitewashed, lump-speckled, stucco ceiling, which probably reflects the lack of material prosperity in the rest of the room.
The room is not entirely dark; it's just... kind of dark. I don't know how to explain. There is some light coming in from the crack around the door and that kind of illuminates the ceiling a bit.
I shut my eyes; I shouldn't have opened them in the first place. That small mistake may cost me my life. Oh, oh, oh... why does this strange setting not surprise me? There must be some reason... a reason that eludes me at the moment. I don't doubt that the reason will pop into my brain sooner or later. It will; there's no reason for it not too.
Not unless if you don't want to remember.
What is that supposed to mean?
What do you think it's supposed to mean?
Shut up.
There is no time for theatrics with my mind. Since my eyes aren't what I should be using right now, I decide to use my other senses to check out the room. They aren't exactly up to par at the moment, I can tell that in an instant and that doesn't surprise me either. I don't think that using my chakra to search for me is going to be a good idea; what if somebody nearby feels it and attacks?
Or worse, what if it doesn't work at—
I thought I told you to shut up.
I force the voice down and use my sense of touch to feel around me. I'm in a bed, there's no one else in it; there is no odd tilt in the mattress nor is there the sound of anyone else breathing beside me.
Ew... talking about mattresses... I am definitely not in my master's house. The mattress I'm lying on is as hard as a rock and rather uncomfortable. I don't really care; I've slept in worse places, including stalagmite/stalactite covered caves. My master would never allow such a mattress into his house. My master's voice rang out in my mind for a second, "If you wish to have a firm mattress, sleep on the floor. Hard beds are for health nuts and old men who think they can keep their sagging spines straight by lying on hard surfaces. You will never find one anywhere on my property."
The hardness of the mattress is contrasted sharply by the softness of the sheets and comforter. The thread count isn't as high as in New Master's house (which is a luxurious 210); that I can tell, I learned how to tell sometime in the first eight years of my life; it's a useful talent sometimes. The thread count on these sheets is not as high as Master's; it's a regular 180 thread count. The comforter is cool, and full of down and cotton. It's good quality stuff, not the best, but good quality. That says something about the person who owns this house, or hotel, or wherever the hell I am right now. They aren't stingy. They know comfort but don't go over the top like Master sometimes does.
My sense of smell decides to kick in right about now, right when the smell of tea wafts into the room. It was cinnamon tea, not green, but cinnamon.
Oooh... cinnamon-y goodness...
I go as far as to wonder if it was for me and then chide myself quickly for holding such hopeful thoughts.
I should be happy that I got the chance to smell it.
Count your blessings and all that other shit, eh?
Gees, you just don't know when to shut up do you?
Well, come to think of it... No, not—
Shut up.
The faint smell of whiskey hits my sensitive nostrils.
Odd.
I wonder if the tea really is for me. If anyone's going to try to intoxicate me, he or she is going to be in for a big surprise. Alcohol doesn't affect me the way that it should; high metabolism or liver sponges or advanced bloodline or something. I stumbled across this little quirk about my body during a drinking contest with the rest of Master's people. I had drunk and drunk and then drunk some more. Even after the other drinkers had passed out cold, I had kept on drinking... and drinking...
"Whooooooooooooooa..." Gargled a tiny girl at about the age of nine. Oh, that's me. I'm tiny... At only one year under New Master's role, I'm the youngest one there in Master years. Oh yeah, I got under New Master's role when I was eight. Old Master had been training me to be a seductress/assassin. Now I'm training to be just an assassin, even though my seductress skills are still being played upon. Even after a year with New Master, I still feel obligated to call him New Master.
A pointy-eared male shoves another drink at me, forcing me out of my thoughts. "Drink it," he said, giving me a funny look.
So I drink it. And then I drink another, and another, and another... and watched as everyone else around the table passed out. Slowly, one by one, their heads fall to the table and their eyes roll to me before they roll up into their heads.
Gees... they're all really fat...
I look down at myself; whoa, am I skinny, or what?
I giggle. The people who stand to watch us are quiet. I wonder why they're so quiet.
"Wire you so KWEET?" I ask, unable to form the proper facial movements to get my words across. Uh oh... something was wrong.
Oh dear...Why are my words coming out so wrong and slurred?
Oh dear is right! What the fuck did you do?
I don't know! Why can't I talk properly?
Beats me! Quick, ask for help or something!
No way! I don't want to look like baby! That's the whole reason that I got in this competition-y thing!
I swing my head to one of the janitors who is acting as our barkeep. He keeps taking my mug (a shiny little thing with a puppy dogs emblazoned around it... I'm rather partial to it), dunking it in the whiskey barrel and putting it back in front of me. I pick it up, pull it to my mouth and swallow. Amazingly, even though my lips can't really make proper words, they are able to hold onto the edge of my favourite mug and keep the keep the whiskey from spilling onto me.
My motor skills are quickly leaving me. People start to chant behind me, "Drink! Drink! Drink! Drink!" There is no pounding in my skull, no gut wrenching want to barf, nothing. I feel absolutely normal except for the fact that I'm slowly losing my motor skills and any control over my body.
The barkeep/janitor keeps looking at me incredulously and I greatly want to smack his face in for staring at me like that.
What the hell is eating him? Oooh, I know, pretty mean words for a nine-year-old, but I learned these words under the care of Old Master, and I'd learned even worse when I was three.
I know what you mean... hasn't he seen a girl drink whiskey before?
I know! Who cares if this is my first time! I've seen girls do this all the time! What a loser!
Quick, punch him!
Uh... no... I'll be nice... I'll just say something mean to him. I don't want to get in trouble.
Right before I tell that guy just where he can and should stick it, he speaks out loud, almost wondrously. "Where do you put it?" he asks.
"Put what?" I ask back, or at least, try to ask. It comes out more like, "Oo—waa?" Oh crud, it's getting hard to keep my arms steady. I hear the crowd still and become quiet; I wonder what's going on. Why have they stopped chanting? I take a gulp from my mug and a little bit of whiskey leaks down my chin.
My mug is smacked out of my hand and someone grabs me from under my chin, forcing me to face him or her.
My mug! Oh my beautiful mug! My mug (my beautiful, beautiful mug!) went CRACK onto the ground and shattered, undoubtedly.
Outraged, I am SO ready to smack the stupid loser in front of me with a chakra blast, but I realize quickly that it just isn't any old loser who just grabbed me, in fact, the person who's holding me is the farthest thing from a loser that can be; it's New Master.
I almost smile up at him, almost but not quite. It was a thing that I learned in the first few years of my training: Never show emotions on your face... Ever. It's wrong and punishable. I try not to, really, I do, but I haven't seen New Master in so long, and here he is, and he can see me winning!
Boo yeah!
I try to give him a half smile and end up pulling up only a corner of my mouth. To New Master, I now suspect that I looked like I was going to burp or barf or worse, do both at the same time. But to me, I thought that I was smiling. Oooo, what a loss of motor controls can do to a face.
Oh yeah, New Master's here to see me drink! TWEET!
Or he could be here to smack you with a pointy stick!
True! But either way, it's all good!
And it is all good. Whatever New Master does is good. Every word from his mouth is the word of angels and he himself is a god walking upon this earth. He is kind and generous and takes such good care of me. He is a wonderful man. Wonderful, wonderful, and bloody fanfuckingtastical. My master stares deep into my eyes; I wonder what the bloody hell he's doing. I wonder if I smell. New Master doesn't like icky smells. New Master also hates green tea. I don't like green tea either. Green tea sucks.
He speaks to me, "Blink three times, very quickly, if you can hear me."
I blink three times, very quickly. I wonder what's going on.
New Master lets me go and my chin hits the table, hard. I don't think that anything broke, however. I listen carefully to what New Master is saying to the janitor/barkeep. I wonder how long the janitor/barkeep has been working for New Master. Not that long... he doesn't look that old, only about twenty or so, but I know that he hasn't been working here for more than two years. His age in New Master years is about two.
The janitor/barkeep's head is bowed in humility to New Master. New Master grabs the janitor/barkeep by his hair; his long, red, shiny hair. He has pretty hair... The janitor/barkeep is very proud of his hair. I know that he should have cut it off when he came under New Master's power; long hair isn't a good thing to have in a place like this. I finger the small brown leather bracelet that adorns my left wrist; unless, of course, if you have New Master's protection. The thin, brown ring about my wrist shows that New Master favours me and that if you try to be mean to me... he'll kick your ass and he'll kick it hella good! Well... his bodyguards would.
"How many drinks did she have?" asks New Master, his voice sinisterly cold.
Hoo boy... Is he talking about me?
Probably... note the fact that you're the only girl around this table.
True... I wonder why he's here though...
Perhaps it has something to do with our lack of motor skills?
Perhaps it does...
"Forty-seven Master-sama," quivers out the young janitor/barkeep's voice.
"Forty-seven?"
"Hai, Master-sama."
"You let a nine-year-old drink forty-seven mugs of whiskey?"
"Hai, Master-sama."
New Master waves his arm around, gesturing to the twelve men who are gathered around the table with me. "How many did it take for the best to go down?"
"The best took seventeen before barfing it all up and passing out cold. The girl is the best now, Master-sama."
New Master nods; nods and then slams the janitor/barkeep's face straight into the table. KER-SPLUNCH That's the noise somebody's nose makes when it's squished against a wooden table and it breaks; the nose that is.
Blood oozes out across the table and started to leak towards me. I don't really care. It could have been water for all I care; there is no way in hell that I'm going to move without New Master's permission, besides the blood doesn't really bother me that much anyway. Nobody else around us really cares either; all of their heads are bowed down in a show of humility to New Master.
New Master turns to look at the rest of his people surrounding our little table of drinkers. "You let a nine-year-old drink forty-seven mugs of whiskey when the best lost consciousness after seventeen? Lost consciousness and vomited his innards out?"
"Hai, Master-sama," comes their unanimous reply. Immediately afterwards you can hear everyone breathing. It's kind of creepy 'cause they're all breathing in unison. I'm the only one messing it up, breathing when they're exhaling, exhaling when they're breathing.
Oh yeah! Screw some of them over! Mwahahahah!
New Master motions to one of the many bodyguards that always surround him. Everyone hears him say "To the Dark Rooms" and I know immediately that everyone is scared as hell. Even I don't know what goes on in the Dark Rooms, and frankly, I don't want to know. The others have told me some stuff about it and honestly, it's fucking scary what they say.
"—With me. Quickly. Let's get out of here."
Eh? Take who with him? I feel myself getting hoisted out of my seat and then feel someone throw me over his exceptionally large shoulder blade. Uh oh... I guess I'm the unlucky contestant. I wonder if I'm going to a Dark Room. I hope not. I really hope not. But if I do go to one, I don't really care.
I watch the floor change from the tan wood of the servant's quarters to the plush red velour carpet that the rest of New Master's mansion is covered in. Suddenly, I'm flipped into a chair. There are many other chairs in this room; I think I've been here before. The lights are dimmed so I can only see the two seats in front of me. A doctor (I can tell he's a doctor from his squeaky clean white lab coat and his weird, shiny stethoscope hanging around his neck) sits in one and New Master sits in another. The doctor holds a bottle in one hand and a large wooden basin rests in his lap. I wonder what the basin is for.
I lean back into my chair, allowing my back to fill up the contours of the very comfy chair. New Master snaps his fingers lazily in the air ahead of him. The doctor places the basin in my lap. It's huge and goes from one chair arm to the other. I grasp the edges and hold onto them so that it won't slide out of my lap.
WOOT! That is one HUGE barf bin!
Barf bin?
I don't get a chance to think about the basin because New Master makes the doctor sit down. And then he takes the bottle from the doctor's hand and uncorks it. It STINKS. Like... really, really, really, STINKS.
EW... smells like rotting garbage and bird guts!
No, it smells like green tea!
EW! It smells like rotting garbage and bird guts and poop and green tea!
The worst combination EVER!
Unless if you add—
I never get to finish that thought. 'Cause right at that moment, New Master holds the bottle out to me and says, "Drink."
I take one of my hands away from the edge of the basin and grasp the bottle as well as I can. Ew... It's orange in colour and has an old faded label on it. I don't try to read it though; there is no time. New Master has told me to drink and so, now is the time to drink. I put the bottle to my lips and swallow.
Kami-sama!
It's like hot oil smearing its way down my throat. I try hard not to sputter and shut my eyes as it screams down my esophagus. It burns like all the seven fires of hell and then some. This liquid has to be the grossest thing I have ever put down my throat. Even worse than that time when I swallowed motor oil. At least that stuff had been cool. This stuff is scorching hot, but the bottle isn't warm. I guess that the stuff itself is really spicy or something like that. I taste... rubber, oil, green tea, and an assortment of other stuff that I can't recognize.
Can't, or won't?
I don't want to answer that.
I finish it quickly and place my hand and the bottle onto the chair arm. Oh god... something's happening to my stomach. I can taste the liquid still in my mouth. It's thick and creamy and oily all at the same time. I swallow repeatedly; I cannot throw up.
Bile rises in the back of my throat. I force it down. I shut my eyes and breathe deeply, trying to force it down with my breath. The bottle is taken out of my hand. My face starts to go red from the force I'm exerting to keep my bile where it belongs: down inside my stomach, not in my mouth. It's a losing battle. But I won't vomit. Tears build up in my eyes as I try to keep it down. I grip the sides of the bowl as hard as I can, making my knuckles go white.
I won't, I won't, I won't. I don't have permission to. I'm not going to barf. I'm not going to! I'm NOT!
"Vomit," says New Master. I stare up at him with glazed eyes. "Into the bowl."
I heed him eagerly and empty the contents of my stomach into the basin in front of me. My vomit splashes in and I make odd choking noises as it spews out. The liquid that oozes out of me burns as much as the liquid I just drank. It takes a minute for the entire contents of my stomach to leave me. By then, I'm just dry heaving and it hurts my throat like a bitch. I'm glad that I wore my hair in a ponytail today, very glad.
I lean over the basin, my eyes shut, spitting out the last remnants of vomit from my mouth. I hate the acidic taste; that horrible lack of control over your body; the way it spews up into your throat. I hate throwing up. But if New Master wants me to throw up, then I will throw up. And I did. Woot, score one for me.
New Master pats the back of my head and I push my head up in happiness.
BOO YEAH! Touch! Touch! Touch!
I have come to associate good performance with touch. If I do something well... New Master will say something nice, or pat my head. I feel very special when this happens. I suppose he pets many other people, but I only know of one other person who wears brown leather around her wrist and she is old and wrinkly. I don't know if that has anything to do with anything, but someone once told me that it does.
"Good, Pet," he says, still petting my head. I look at my bowl of vomit. It stinks like green tea and that weird smell vomit always gives off; that weird, sour, rotting smell. He called me by my name, my name! I am happy. I don't care about the smell at all.
Pet, Pet, Pet. Pet is good!
Oh yeah, I am so good! I am the best! Pet gets petted and gets good words!
I am Pet, I am good, I did well and New Master likes me!
Yes, my name is Pet. Okay, so it isn't. I don't really... have a name. Old Master called me Little Girl, always, Little Girl. I don't know what my birth mother might have called me. I was given to Old Master when I was two days old, apparently. But I don't really care. New Master has taken to calling me Pet. And if he wants to call me Pet, he can call me Pet. Hell, if he wants to call me Arielle The Toad Eating Piglet, he can and I will be happy.
I am devoted to my New Master. He is a kind and wonderful and generous person. It is my honour to be taking care of him. I am training to be his bodyguard and an assassin and a seductress. I was trained for eight years under the rule of Old Master from the time I was two days old till I was eight to be a seductress and an assassin. I've learned a bit, but New Master is constantly getting people to train me. I train hard and for as long as possible. Usually I don't stop until I pass out or until New Master stops me. When I train, I always think about New Master, because it is for New Master that I train. I do everything for New Master and anything that he says to me. If New Master wanted me to kill someone, then I do it and I will die trying to do it if I have to. If New Master told me to kill myself, I would do it too, with no hesitation. Anything from the mouth of New Master is law. I would kill myself to save New Master, and I'd do it with a smile on my face.
The doctor comes by now, and he takes the foul smelling basin away. New Master stops petting me and steps aside as the doctor comes back.
"Raise your head," says New Master. Tehe, his voice is nice. "It might hurt, Pet, but do it."
I raise my head, but it doesn't hurt. I don't get it... is it supposed to hurt?
The doctor wipes down my face with a damp towel. Then he makes me lean back into the chair. I shudder slightly; vomiting is not my thing.
"Do you have a headache?" asks the doctor. I stay silent and stare ahead. I have no permission to answer.
"Answer him, Pet."
"No," I reply to the doctor. He smells... like... medicine. Okay, not a good description, but he smells like medicine, really sweet medicine that tries to hide the real taste with sugar but doesn't really manage to do it, so you're stuck with sticky sweet medicine that tastes disgusting; it's an insult to sugar.
The doctor peers into my eyes. "Do you feel dizzy?"
"No."
The doctor looks to New Master. "How many did she drink?" he asks him.
New Master looks from me to the doctor. "The best drank seventeen," he sidesteps the doctor's question. "What will happen to him?"
"Seventeen? Shot of whiskey?" repeats the doctor incredulously.
"Yes," replies New Master. "Seventeen shots of whiskey."
"Alcohol poisoning, no doubt about it. He's going to need to have his stomach pumped. He's going to have a might big hangover when he wakes up." He glances at me and smiles. I don't like his smile. His teeth are too white, too shiny, and too levelled. I think they're kind of too small too. "How many did she drink? Two?"
"Forty-seven. She won the competition."
The doctor smiles and rubs at his ears. "I'm sorry," he says, "But I thought I heard you say that that little girl over there drank forty-seven shots."
"You heard correctly. My Pet drank forty-seven shots of whiskey. Why hasn't she died?"
I listen in on their conversation very carefully. I don't sense anyone else in the room with us. However, New Master's guards are right outside the door.
"You are sure that she had forty-seven shots?" asks the doctor.
"Yes," answers my master. My master's so cool. "Why hasn't she died yet? I thought that a grown man drinking over twenty shots would die. She drank twice that and then some and she's a girl of only nine years."
The doctor wrings his hands and looks at me nervously. Looks at me; me, a girl who is not moving an inch. I know what he's thinking. Any normal kid would have moved by now, any normal kid would have butted into this conversation, any normal child would have been passed out by now, any normal child would have moved something in their body by now, any normal child would rolled their eyeballs by now. I think he's coming to the conclusion that I am not a normal child. Sometimes I like to think of myself as a highly trained miniature soldier.
He looks back to New Master and then to me and then back again to New Master. "She—she might have an advanced bloodline of some sorts."
"Advanced blood line?"
"Yes, they still exist, there are very few, but they still exist. Umm... she may have come from a line of drunkards who built up resistance, one generation at a time. Eventually, if you drink enough and get your children to drink enough and then continue on with this process and add in some magic, you can create an advanced bloodline. It's not unheard of, but very, very rare to see in females. Usually it's found in males."
"I see... so what are the effects of this... advanced bloodline?"
"Well... for one thing, she won't get drunk. Nor will she suffer from hangovers. But if she drinks too much, she will lose her motor skills for a short amount of time and be rendered helpless. She won't be able to do anything. She will be able to think however."
Ah ha! That explains my lack of mouth movements and weird words.
"How long does it take the alcohol to wear off of her system?"
"About, oh, if you take the drink, then it's just a few minutes. If you don't have any then it shouldn't take that long, only about one or two hours, maximum, to regain all of your movement."
"I see... thank you for your help. You may leave now."
There's a weird noise, I guess that's the doctor grabbing his stuff and leaving. I continue to stare straight ahead and don't move. New Master walks up to me.
"Smile," says his voice. I smile. "You're one special little girl. You can drink whatever you want and nothing bad will happen." He pats my head. "Such a good pet you are. I am so glad that I took you away. You're such a wonderful thing to have around here." He strokes my hair. Woot, am I happy, or what? "We're going to have to train you in this, all right?" I continue to smile; it's a rhetorical question, we both know that if he wants me to do something I will do it. I like the fact that he pretends that I have a choice. "See how well you can hold your drink. Maybe we can raise the bar for you."
He continues to stroke my hair for a while and I continue to smile. "Stop smiling," he says. He stops stroking my hair and takes my hand. "It's time for you to go to sleep." I stand and follow him, smiling on the inside.
I have an advanced bloodline.
Okay... so it's not liver sponges or a high metabolism. Oh well, advanced bloodlines are pretty cool too. Eep, I wonder what triggered that memory sequence... Oh, right... the smell of whiskey. I wonder if the tea is mine.
I lie still on my back as I was before. There does not seem to be any one else in the room. There has been no movement, no sounds, nothing to show that there is another person in this room with me. But I know that I shouldn't just assume that there is no one else in the room with me. Once before, on one of my earlier missions (just an easy assassination), I had thought the same thing. Until the smell of someone's fart hit my nose.
God... that was GROSS.
My sense of hearing picks up footsteps. The door is muffling them, so I can't tell very much about the person who's making them. I hear the unmistakeable rattle of a porcelain tea set on a tray. The person walking down... somewhere near me, probably a hallway, is carrying a tea tray which has cinnamon tea in it; cinnamon tea that is laced with whiskey.
The footsteps are soft, unhurried. I wonder if there's a storm brewing behind those ever so calm, ever so quiet, ever so soothing footsteps. Sometimes a calm façade can hide an insanely intense person.
The doorknob rattles and I wonder if I should feign sleep and try to acquire a bit of information on my whereabouts. It's worked before. I wonder how stupid this person is. I wonder how smart they are. I wonder if they are worth my time. I wonder where my master is...
Why don't I remember?
I hear the door open and I can feel the light from outside of the room flood in and slide across my eyes which twitch involuntarily at the small change in light. I wonder how bright the light will be once the person by the door turns it on.
UNBEARABLY BRIGHT!
My eyes snap open against my will and I have to close them again the harsh glare of the bare, unfrosted one hundred watt light bulb coming down from the ceiling. I blink several times, trying to desperately to get my eyes accustomed to the harsh light.
Quick! Shut your eyes! Pretend you're sleeping!
I can't! ACK! They've seen already!
Shut your eyes!
Shut your nonexistent mouth! It's too late to do that!
I sit up and jump back, so that I'm crouching against the wall, using one arm one the wall and one arm on the bed to balance me. My eyes are still blurry and I can make out the figure of a grey-haired male standing at the foot of the bed. Oh no... I start to remember. I feel dizzy as my mind is overcome with memories. I know this man...
LIE DOWN! Play dead! Quick! Do something!
I can't! It's too late to do anything!
"Yo! Ah, good. You're awake," remarks the fuzzy ethereal blur by the foot of the bed.
Much too late...
"Sorry I'm late. I was dancing with a large octopus and it wanted to marry me but I had to decline so it shot me with ink. Here, drink some tea," he says, holding up the tray. "It's cinnamon." He smiles, but I can only tell that he is because his eye crinkles up. His other eye and the rest of his face are hidden from view.
Oh dear... much too, much too late indeed.
I know this man... I know him... from where do I remember him?
I stare at him in shock as he slowly comes in focus. Course, it doesn't really look like I'm in shock. I look perfectly normal, which for me is expressionless. But my eyes have widened a bit.
Crud, I know where I saw him from...
Oh god... he's...
I remember why I wasn't surprised when I woke up.
Oh... I'm back again; back to the present. The sky is just as dark as it was before and the moon hasn't moved a bit. I estimate that I've spent about twenty minutes remembering my sixteen-year-old self.
I sigh and lean back. Soon, I'm lying on my back, the cool tiles soothing my burning skin. I feel hot. The wind comes by just then and caresses my skin, as though it's trying to make me feel better. I smile. I love the outdoors at night.
I swing my legs which are dangling off the edge of the balcony. They're still wedged between the railing and the balcony. The wind feels nice on them.
I shut my eyes. I want to remember when I first met my mas—husband. I don't always make that mistake, you know, calling him master out loud. Now I have to call him my Kakashi-kun. Not that I want to. I think it's stupid for someone like me to call my master by his or her first name. I never even knew what my other masters' names were and I still don't. I don't think I want to know.
I remember the first time I met him; I was sixteen. I remember when he ordered to me to call him Kakashi-kun. I remember how I felt when he made me do that.
Oi...
I remember the thoughts I had about him...
I allow myself to go back in time again, back to when I first met my Kakashi-kun, what I was remembering when I awoke to the smell of cinnamon tea.
My breathing slows... I am no longer twenty-one. I am sixteen and I am in New Master's conference room.
I am about to meet my newest master, but I don't know that yet.
No, I don't know that yet.
Tweet... there you have it. That was my story about Kakashi and his new slave... thing... woman... child... thing. YEAH! Next chapter will be up... later. And you'll learn the woman's name; a name that I haven't decided on yet. .
Oh yeah, I got mad skills... I'm skilled at SLEEPING. Oh yeah, I can sleep! —goes off to sleep— Oh yeah, sleep is awesome. Wake me out of my slumber with a review if you want to. I promise I'll talk to you about it later on. Feel free to add me on MSN. My e-mail's on my page... thing. .
Ciao for now.