It has been such a long time since I've attempted any fan fiction. Please don't be irate if this piece doesn't turn out as well as some of my previous stories-- I'm more than a bit rusty.
I've never written Naruto fan fiction, either-- my sole experiences come from other titles…so please forgive me if it seems inadequate. I hope you'll read on with this in mind. Immaturity isn't something I like dealing with when it comes to something as trivial as fan fiction.
I claim nothing on Naruto, as a disclaimer to this piece.
On another note, I'd like to thank everyone who has read my junk in the past. Anything I have left uncompleted may very well stay that way, unless for some reason I am able to pick up where I left off.
When I look out the window, I can still see your smiling face, it's as bright as the sun on the water. It's a reflection so beautiful, it's sometimes painful to perceive. But I can't stop looking; I can't stop remembering. I can't get out.
It keeps seeping up through the cracks, sleek as satin sheets, rolling back and forth over my body in a hypnotic rhythm. I'm not going to fight it this time. I'm not going to struggle, like before. I keep telling myself that. I keep trying to remember your face.
Through this warped view, I reach out to touch your face, but it's not near enough to me. It's not close. I'm moving my hands through that twisted glass, and I touch nothing.
The pressure holds me down; I can't fight it. I'm struggling against that force, that strength. It's inevitable that I'll drown.
Early spring is the most beautiful time in Konoha, there can be no doubt. It is before the heavy rains, coating the world in a forbidding layer of mud; it is before the stifling heat bequeathed to summer, the rancid smell of fruits gone foul as they still hang on to the swaying branches, swaying without wind; it is before winter with its terrible chill, slipping into each corner of the house, breathing disease.
There is that beauty, yes; but always, always a perpetual pain, seeing the first blooms slowly uncurl. Seeing the world undergoing a metamorphoses, a dreadful, unstoppable movement.
He thought about maybe, maybe this morning, he wouldn't go to class. He would, instead, go over near the lake. He would look at the new blossoms before they were ravaged by the wind, and then gone. He would sit in the sunlight for just a little while, and forget.
But even as he rises, he knows he cannot change. He must go on with this day as yesterday, and the day before. He must smile for them, knowing full well it is a disguise easily enough detected. Knowing that tomorrow will be the same, and that the waves haven't risen any higher, but he still isn't able to overcome them.
Tottering into the lavatory, a small, cramped room with the dreary lighting of one hanging bulb, Iruka carefully puts the lid up ( mama always let him know how incredibly rude it was to leave it up, after all) on his toilet and relieves himself. It's a simple act, and yet today, it seems strange to him; it seems pathetic, useless.
He carefully dresses himself, as always, in his uniform, washed and ironed the night before, and then laid out on the rattan chair he sometimes sits in when he has the urge to read, or nap. Running a comb through his disheveled hair unthinkingly, routinely, drawing it up into a pony tail, he moves towards the mirror.
It seems like there is someone else here today. A different face, a tired, sad face, a regret deep in someone's heart, a painful memory that should have been locked away. The soundlessness of the room echoes into his ears and through his body. Touching the mirror lightly with his hands, fingertips, he trembles; he doesn't understand why, but it hurts, hurts to look at himself in that tattered reflection.
"You can't beat me at this! I'm so fast--"
"Well, that's what she said, but I also heard--"
"I'm gonna go over to his house this afternoon, so if you want--"
"Let's play war instead. We always play ninja--"
Voices, as many as there are, traversing in and out of his hearing, seem nonexistent, as the sun , brilliantly shining down through a cloudless heaven, infiltrates his body with it's warmth. The classroom still has a dank , cold feel to it; it was not so long ago, after all, that this world was bleak and frozen…And yet, to have already moved into such a different direction, to already be here, in the early stages of renewal….
He could sit under this tree forever. It has always been his favourite place to watch the children during the break. There was enough shade to supply the needed coolness after having been under the extreme heat of the sun; and yet, a deep, heavy warmth, like a blanket could be found here, too, a feeling of protection. Like a full embrace, the feel of strong arms encircling you , holding fast and tight, unrelenting.
Glancing down at his workload, settled in his lap in a decent little pile, he begins perusing it carefully, tracing his red pen along the clumsy characters of small children. There is always some kind of error blotting out the sought for ingenuity in their work; it's what makes them children.
And of children, and childhood, that mysterious, quickened period of his life which seemed to pass him by without a memory to attribute it, gaining him nothing but a resounding sorrow and much grief. These children, at least, have their childhood; they have some intercourse with the simplicity and playfulness that it brings; they have no worries that their parents would withhold them. How fortunate, indeed, are they who were born in a time of peace and not war, war that drags with it, on chains of bones, famine and disease, and more certainly than all of these things, death, death which is not offered as a release.
It seems the red ink is plentiful, and fluid as is writhes across the page blindly, mixing with black, creating small pools in the creases, running down into his lap, down his face. He doesn't notice the dripping, the cool vertical stripes against his skin, his cheeks, just a slightly darker shade than his usual tan flesh. He doesn't notice, immediately, because there is no need; he feels it all; but remains unaware, so consumed in his checking, his ceaseless finding of fault.
Now, someone is crying. But it isn't just Iruka; he hears a small whine, definitive of children when they have been hurt by something meager. He sets his work aside, smearing the ink and tears streaked carelessly across his face with a clumsy hand. It makes no difference if anyone sees, or knows. Today is a little different than yesterday, at least.
"What's happened?"
"He pushed me-- he did it on purpose!"
"I did not! You just wouldn't get out of the way!"
"Nuh-uh!"
"That's enough! I don't care if it wasn't on purpose, you're both in trouble. Henge no jutsu when we return to class, everyone!" Proclaiming thus a punishment, he walks back to the tree and collects his unfinished editing, motioning for the students to follow him.
But he is unable to continue.
"The sky is so bright today, class…" Looking up, viewing the garish blue, unmottled by clouds, he feels a tremor on his lips, a snare in his throat. Today, it hurts. His voice is crumbling.
They, of course, are too young to understand what is happening. They believe he is being strange, perhaps to frighten them, perhaps in earnest. And, when he starts trembling, covering his mouth to muffle the piteous sobs issuing forth, they only group closer, watching intently without voice. His hands cover his face entirely, his papers gone astray in the grasp of the sudden spring wind, he sinks to his knees, doubling over. He feels the heavy burn of the sun on his back and shoulders, a heat so intense and sudden to his frame that he begins to shiver, uncontrollably, gripping his arms across his chest and stomach in a futile effort to control himself.
Somewhere inside him, he finds a voice.
"I--I need help, please. Please," eyes downward, a steady rivulet of water dripping down his chin to form a dark, wet spotting in his lap.
"What's the matter, Iruka-sensei? Are you sick?"
"Should we get a medical nin?"
One of them has a small hand resting on his shoulder. It is very white, and so very small, he could take it in his own and cover it entirely. He shakes his head, biting his fist to withhold this scream that begs him release, to be freed from his throat and from the agony in his breast.
Iruka waves them away, turning is head to the side so as not to scare them anymore with his tears. "Go home," hoarsely, rubbing his eyes, "Go home for today. It's all right. Go home for today." Reluctantly, one by one, his students depart, gazing at their teacher helplessly, confused. When he is certain they have dissipated, he stands, shaking tumultuously, and breathes in deep, trying to collect himself.
What….what has happened here? Why am I…..
He stumbles along the outside of the building, along the shadowed edge, moaning softly as his fingers press against the solidity of the wall, feeling his way, blinded by tears and sadness. It is indescribable; it is abstract, yet he knew it was coming, full blown and at the peak of its crest as wave that is about to crash into the rocks. Having been dashed about, sinking down to nothing at the shore line but a boiling over of thin white froth, so his body and mind are, weak, drained, and yet the discovery of it's cause is not tangible. Leaning down, in the coolness of the shadow, he feels a weightlessness, a momentary lightness which passes into darkness.