Flex



The walls are blue, like a cloud of mold or a faded bruise; blue like the pale veins that intertwine with purple ones, shining through the thin transparency of your son's skin. The walls are blue like sorrow and sadness and other misfit words, like other feelings you have felt and wallowed in.

You're slumped against the closet door, whose hinges will barely hold you, and the handle is cool against your arms, folded behind the vessel that you live in. It's cool like a katana that sleeps in its case.

An eerie glow spills into the room from the window, which is shut tightly, slammed closed in a moment of frustration. You wonder if maybe the moon is trying to reach out to you, if maybe this light will pull you to the sky and you will be free, finally.

The crib in the center of the room is constructed of natural wood, unpainted, glazed only with the sweat you shed while putting it together. You remember, as the image of it burns itself into your mind, standing over the pieces and thinking of the tiny miracle that would lie in it someday.

There are stars stenciled below the air vent near the door, and you wonder how they got there. You wonder how many other babies have occupied this room, and then an intense fear grips you, like nothing you've ever experienced, because you realize that he is your baby and you are solely responsible for him. For this. For Kakashi.

There are fireflies, too, flitting through cutout trees that are merely black construction paper taped to the far wall. It's a paper forest, but the fireflies seem to disappear and reappear, moving with a strange, impossible, grace. Every time you look at them they are different, and you think about Kakashi and ponder the type of man he will be and the variety of faces he will wear, ever-changing.

You are scared of the unknown, and even being scared scares you, and you know that Kakashi would not want a coward for a father. You know that he would be better off with someone like Tsunade, a woman that can give him things and teach him life lessons, grinning all the while.

The moonlight fades from the room, retreating like a fleet of frightened shinobi, and this is when you're sure you want to leave. This is when you're sure that you want it to wash you away.

Your sword is just down the hall, just behind a door that's locked but still not safe from you. It would be so easy, you think, and you dare yourself to do it.

Kakashi cries out, fumbling his way through the blankets to gasp for you, his father and caretaker, the guardian he doesn't know enough to doubt. He wants a bottle; it's his bottle-cry, and you go to warm milk for him, telling yourself the entire time you're walking to the kitchen that you will kill yourself afterwards.

That it would be right.

That he would be okay.

That someone would find you, find him, and take him to a shelter.

You test it. A patch of skin on your arm feels like it's melting, and you remove the bottle, too hot. After it cools and you've given it to him, you think, Kakashi. My son.

He holds the bottle feebly, fussing because it empties too quickly, and you hope against all odds that he will not grow up like you, that he will not drink away the world.

You hope that he will not contemplate suicide, and then you shake your head and retire to your bedroom, gripping the sheets for dear life.

The bed is warm, your son is quiet, and life is bliss.


Fin.

This one was sort of inspired by "How to Commit Seppuku in Three Easy Steps", a story by Kimi no Vanilla.

Thank you Momosportif for recommending it; I enjoyed it immensely.