You are my blanked out pages
All the wasted spaces
The old weapons vanished
Spit blood at dawn, closed forever

You are a fractured mirror
Silver paper in the wind
A desperate measure
Sharp little circuits of fever

Circuits of fever: Thursday


I am silence…a complete absence of sound, heavy and choking.

I am deadly silence, a lingering presence on the edge of your periphery that needles your frustrated senses, the sharp tension focused hot and unrelenting at the nape of your neck – the kind that has tiny pale hairs springing up to attention, the kind that has your body screaming in preparation for something your mind cannot yet comprehend.

I am persistent silence, present among the stillness of the snow-covered forest; present in the lack of a cool breeze or the absence of small scurrying rodents. You cannot see me, you cannot hear me but from the claustrophobic weight of the vacuum settling around your shoulders you know I am here, waiting. Still waiting.

I am a blunt instrument, worn down by countless hands, favoured and overused. Unquestioning and diligent, I go where I am told; I do what I am asked. I do this with unparalleled efficiency. Service with a smile.

I am a sharp tool, all high polish and glinting in cold light. With lethal accuracy I strike and sever and cut. Flesh, bone and steel…it's all like butter, soft and pliable. I am kunai, shuriken, tanto, senbon and countless other manifestations of heavy mineral ore. I am the warm taste of copper in your mouth and you know it.

I am a machine, driven by commands and objectives, a well oiled pumping, grinding, sliding machine built to carry out the dirty work of old impotent men and women who sit at grand oak desks in luxurious robes ignoring the invisible crimson staining their hands.

I am a six-year-old boy being held high in sturdy arms. My fathers handsome face stares at me with warmth and pride as he spins me like a toddler in strong spade like hands. They are rough and calloused with short blunt figure nails that dig in as they ruffle through my hair without remorse…I swear his hands are large enough to completely engulf my ribcage and I giggle; a soft musical sound appropriate for my years but a rarity in contrast to my normally stoic demeanour. I have just passed the Chunin exams without injury or incident but that in itself means very little to me. At age six I do not fully understand the concept of life and death, being a ninja still feels like a game and my mentors and superiors educate me as if it is a game, explaining complex strategies and manoeuvres in childish terms with sweet edible rewards upon the completion of a task.

A boiled black and white stripy humbug for learning a new elemental based jutsu.

A lollipop in bright lurid red for demonstrating the quickest way to decapitate an opponent.

They walk a fine line between patronising me and overwhelming me but they don't know any better, it's hard to teach a six year old the same things you usually teach a fourteen year old, it's hard enough then. Yes, it's hard to fashion a six-year-old child into a weapon. But war is coming.

At the time my achievement meant nothing to me, but my fathers praise, normally so sparingly given, meant everything.

Six months later I kill for the first time. I demonstrate with horrific accuracy how to decapitate a man with a chakra infused piano wire. The crowd stop dancing the second the music cuts out, they stand there dressed in an array of glittering exotic fabrics, sequined and beaded couture mannequins staring open mouthed like shimmering koi-carp as the targets head slides off his shoulders and lands with a splattering clang on the black and ivory keys…and I find after all that blood…thick and clotted and lurid in colour, that I do not feel much like humbugs or lollipops anymore. In fact the idea of sweets has repulsed me ever since.

My father does not congratulate me when my sensei brings me back home later that night; they exchange knowing looks over the threshold, the type of looks that communicate something heavy and adult that I am not privy to. Instead he runs me a hot bath and puts me to bed without ever saying a word. I would have felt like I had done something wrong if it weren't for the reassuring spade like hand that remained clamped to my shoulder while I cried in the bath, hugging my knees and feeling very much my age.

The next day I over hear my fathers raised voice and the quiet submissive tones of my sensei coming from the veranda. Snippets of conversation carry through to my hiding place. Words like "irresponsible" are batted around.

"He's not even seven…Where were you…your mission…child for gods sake…don't give me that perfect disguise bullshit!…OF COURSE NO ONE WOULD SUSPECT A FUCKING CHILD!!…"

There's the sound of glass breaking and then my father is back in the house. His hand is once again on my shoulder. I only see my sensei in passing after that.

I am nearly twelve years old. I find social interactions are becoming increasingly more challenging, if not because of my own awkwardness then because of the disapproving glares I am receiving lately. I am being groomed for the Jounin examinations, which I am told I will be ready for in less than a year although my new sensei disagrees. Namikaze Minato is a kind man who looks too young, said to be the genius of his generation he is the perfect tutor to compliment my growing abilities and he says I am not ready, he says I do not have any experience working in a team, something which needs to be addressed sooner rather than later "for your sake." He mutters something about me ending up another ANBU nut job if I'm not careful, but he always smiles in an infectious manner afterward.

Being a genius has its drawbacks; I was tutored privately from the age of four because I was too advanced to be educated amongst my peers. They wanted to stretch my abilities without intimidating the other students. It's difficult making friends when you only see them for exams…even harder when they are on average seven years older than you. Instead of seeking out company I start reading everything and anything I can get my hands on, I spend hours pouring over scrolls, poetry, maps, classic literature, art history, ancient history…I even start compulsively working my way through one of Konoha's vast library's from A to Z. Minato often finds me after closing, my face buried against the bent spine of a literary great and snoring quietly.

One night when walking me home he tells me that I will be joining a team soon, that it's about time I started mixing with my peers, I am doubtful about this upcoming arrangement but through my sleepy haze I don't argue, I just say goodnight and continue on my way home.

When I walk in the door my father barely looks up from his paper, the smell of saké and cigarette smoke is strong in the old living room. He doesn't put his hand on my shoulder any more and instead I find myself putting my much smaller much less comforting hand on his. He never seems to notice the contact; he never seems to notice anything I do now. I've heard the whispers. I know the story. My father was too kind for his own good. War is looming closer and it seems as if the heavy responsibility rests solely on his shoulders.

Under the weight of such guilt my small hand goes unnoticed.

Three months later and I have turned twelve. I return from the library with a brightly coloured book stuffed in my rucksack and congratulate myself on the incredible array of ninja skills it took to capture it. Although I am aware that I could get into trouble for sneaking into the library's restricted area, I don't care. By that point I have gone through every letter of the alphabet and read every book from quilting to cuisine, with nothing left to read, no knowledge coated bliss to escape into, the lightly jutsu'ed double doors reading "18+" only serve to mock me.

-It had sat up high on the top shelf, in a bright aqua blue dust jacket; it was the hardest to reach so obviously was the first to grab my attention. When I got it down the front cover depicted a writhing mass of tentacles in an oddly random yet symmetrical design. In the centre of said mass was a woman with long flowing hair, a nipple protruding out of what looked like a shockingly skimpy latex ensemble. She was straddling a thick veiny tentacle and wielding an axe with a look of sultry determination on her face. The illustration was beautiful, aggressive and primitive, done in the style of old ink canvases but modernised with screen-printing in a limited three-colour palette; warm terracotta, light olive green against the aqua blue of the book. I didn't know what it meant, I didn't understand the swirl of excitement sitting low in my stomach but I was completely fascinated. In fact I was probably in love. Little did I know at the time that "In Too Deep" would be the starting point for one of my oddest personal quirks later in life.

So yes, trophy in bag I walked towards home my hands almost itching to find out what could be hidden behind that amazing front cover. Home…the word had begun to feel like an oxymoron for weeks.

I found him in our dojo after I had stashed my new book into my pillowcase.

I knew straight away what had happened, I had an analytical, sharp mind. There was no question of "why" or "how."

It was not how those sorts of scenes should have been. The light wasn't dim or flickering, the smell of death wasn't thick on the air. Instead the room was brightly illuminated so that I could see everything with startling primary clarity and it smelt of jasmine and incense in the cool room. The smell of cigarettes and saké that had followed my father around like an aura for the past two months was gone.

I stepped in his blood; I knelt in his blood and looked into his eyes. They were wide and staring but glassy and unfocused. A smoky haze seemed to have settled over the retinas giving them a clear milky quality. The bright candle light and the absence of life made those globes a perfect mirror and in its reflection I could see my face, wide eyed and terrified, lost and confused, my jaw clenched tightly, my lips trembling…

Only the dead see this face.

I was chanting it over and over when Minato found me. Tucked up in bed, bloody footprints trailing up white cotton bed sheets…like blood on snow, I felt that cold.

He had to pry the book away from my shaking fingers. I'd stayed like that all night and read "In Too Deep" a total of eight times. Cover to cover, over and over until he'd come to find me, worried why I hadn't turned up to meet my new team-mates.

I've been wearing a mask ever since.

I am thirteen and am in blistering agony, there is a tight alien presence drilling into my eye socket, a flaring nauseous heat radiating in circles through my skull. When I open my eyes to look into the face of the boy who had unknowingly become my best friend I can see everything as if the world is running in slow motion. Each tiny flinch of pain across his face, each tremor across his dying body. Minuscule particles of dust and pollen circulate through the air, their rapid waltz slowing and calming with each weak and shuddering breath. The gift he's given me allows me to record his death frame by frame, the images burned permanently into my minds eye. I wonder for the first time if this can really be considered a gift…it seems too cruel.

I am fourteen when the world explodes. An enormous swell of light engulfs the village and at once the terrifying sound of the Kyuubi's scream vanishes into the cold night. Shouts of elation seem to drown out the cries of mourning. There are so many dead, so many lost but the sense of hope and relief is palpable. I learn an hour later that my sensei, the third Hokage sacrificed himself to save us all. I don't feel overwhelming grief or welcome relief. I feel numb.

I am sixteen and tangled up in snowy white bed sheets, my long gangly limbs pinned in place by the small figure curled up beside me. When she kisses me she pulls her headband over her eyes with a cheeky smirk and tells me she won't peek…and she never does. She often lifts up my headband and stares longingly into the swirling tomoe of the red Sharingan eye, her face is open and honest, too readable for a shinobi and I can read every minuscule shifting of her features. I wonder if the reason she doesn't ask to see my face is because she likes to pretend I'm someone else. When I'm late for a date she chastises me until I supply her with an obviously contrived story about kittens or squirrels or elderly ladies. When she hears this her heart shaped face breaks into a ridiculous toothy grin and she seems suddenly, totally at ease. She likes to pretend I'm someone else.

She is killed on a B-rank mission in a time of relative peace. Something she should have been able to handle, something "easy" and I find myself finally completely alone.

I am seventeen and the phrase "you'll end up just another ANBU nut job if you're not careful Kashi-kun" seems to echo in the small clearing, singing up from the sharp angles of the cenotaph. I trace the clear precise writing with my fingertips, I try to picture the infectious grin that should follow that sentiment…but I can't. The image of unruly blonde hair and bright blue eyes is a murky one, his face superimposed on top of so many others battling for my attention. I fix the porcelain wolf mask back in place and leap into the trees.

I am twenty and leading masked figures through thick woodland, we move without sound.

I am twenty-one and I am plunging a dagger down down down…

I am twenty-two and my fingernails are being torn from my fingers one by one by cold steel pliers, I keep my mouth shut as a sickly looking man asks me the same four questions over and over and over, in his excitement he leans in too close and it's the last thing he does. My teeth are around his windpipe before he has finished his sentence.

I am twenty-three and my list of jutsu's has long since exceeded a thousand, I am in every bingo book across the continent, my faceless face tucked in a thousand grubby pockets. I have been given so many monikers that I can't remember the last time someone said my actual name with affection.

I am twenty four.

I am countless names immortalised on black reflective stone.

I am countless names immortalised on worn pages.

I am a blunt instrument.

I am a sharp tool.

I am a well-oiled piston in a violent machine.

I am the uncomfortable sensation that has settled between your shoulder blades as you run through the thick undergrowth. As your body slams through the ice stiffened bracken and your feet loose their footing on slippery-knotted branches I am everywhere and nowhere all at once.

Full of adrenaline and undiluted terror you lash out and land a lucky blow that splits the grinning porcelain straight down the middle. I do the rest of the work for you, shaking off the broken shards and pulling down the dark fabric that covers my mouth and nose. Your eyes widen almost comically in response to my sardonic grin and as your blood sprays across the snow-covered ground, beautiful lurid crimson across crisp white bed sheets, the words 'Only the dead see this face' sing out into the still night.

A thick red marker traces a large neat 'X' across your photograph and the bingo book finds its way back into my pocket.

And then once again I am silence.

Deadly persistent silence.

Ta da!

…so err…what did you think? Slightly crazy before team 7 Anbu Kakashi? Hmmm. This was an annoying plot bunny that kept nibbling my fingers; it was stopping me from progressing with my multichap fic so it demanded to be written. Probably needs a revision at some point…crazy messing up of tenses as well but I'll just pin that on slightly nutty Kakashi. I tried to get lots of parallels and loops into the writting...anyway, hope someone likes it, and please don't get offended by any factual inaccuracies that this is probably riddled with. SM xx