A Thousand Endings

He never ever saw it coming at all
He never ever saw it coming at all
He never ever saw it coming at all
It's all right, it's all right, it's all right, it's all right
I'm the Hero of this story, don't need to be saved
It's all right

"This isn't your story," she said to him, her liquid eyes shining. She looked across the table at him like that, as if the sockets there were on the verge of becoming pillars of running water, and suddenly the cigarette in her hand seemed a brandished weapon. It hung heavy from the thin hand attached to her limp wrist, as if at any moment she might bear it mightily, like a great sword, and take his head clean off with one arcing slice.

But there was no need for that. Her words did enough. It was as if they had grown and grown and grown inside of her, while the two of them sat there in the silence; communicating pleas and peace offerings with both pairs of their blood shot eyes. So that when she finally opened her mouth, they just fell out onto the table. And from there they crawled haggardly towards him, infiltrating him, taking over the ground he'd fought so hard to establish, because she always made him feel like he was sinking. As if every where he walked there was quicksand, waiting politely beneath his feet to drag him under. Her words limped up his arms and hung from his shoulders and pried up his fingernails to crawl underneath them, stinging him all the way down his palms. Like a handful of nails.

He whispered her name, a kind of choking noise that sounded more wounded animal than grown man. A vulnerability he instant regretted vocalizing, wished that he could take back. But he couldn't. It was there, another thing to define them, just as permanent and inescapable as all of the other things they'd done to one another.

Regret , it seemed, was the name of the game. And nobody, he realized as he looked across at her tears black with kohl, and her hair sticking in clumps to her wet cheekbones, could play it better than she could. She was the queen of shouldn't have, and he her pawn, moved backwards and forwards by strings he hadn't even known existed, until he'd turned back to look and spied them clenched tightly in her tiny hands.

It didn't matter what he said or did, she was just going to keep sitting there shaking her head at him. Swallowing hard as her black tears dripped down from her nose onto the cracked wooden table top. Struggling to say again and again over the stones she'd swallowed, the ones that sat rough and jagged in her throat "It's not your story. You don't get to say how it ends."

And he stood up slamming his hands on the table top, because the sinking feeling was migrating from his feet and flying swiftly north through his whole entire body. And it was broadening and taking in everything, and he felt like the world was spinning. Flipping and rocking and rolling and if he had stayed seated he would have lost his balance and tipped over. And then he'd be falling. And falling. And he wasn't sure if he knew how to stop.

A familiar ache was spreading in his head and he had to grind the hilts of his hands against his eyeballs hard to shove it out. It was just a stupid jutsu, but sometimes he felt made out of wood. Completely made out of wood. It was a lonely feeling. A feeling that couldn't be touched. When the ache spread across him that's when he felt it most. Like a tree. Like a picket fence. Heavy. Stolid. Inanimate. Invisible. He rubbed his eyes harder. He got so heavy, sometimes. So heavy he could hardly lift his arms. He could barely get out of bed. He'd wrap his arms around himself and his fingers would splinter, great, peeling, bloody rips crawling up his flesh.

Her eyes got wide. The cigarette ash was dripping down into her lap, but she didn't flinch. In much the same way she had of never flinching. But this time it was probably not because she wanted the pain, pain being her rocket back to Earth, her way of knowing that she was still alive, could still feel something. Anything other than the edgeless, endless numbness that was the seasoned shinobi's opiate. The inability to feel surprised that hits you and hits you hard. It comes after the realization of a continent's worth of body strewn battlefields, the sudden surety that the first high will never quite be topped by the next. It kills you, eventually.

But no, this time it was more likely that the look she gave him was the love child of her fear and hostility. A healthy baby she had gifted him, a forced adoption of sorts, because she couldn't carry the viral burden on her own, and was unashamed of her selfishness.

She probably thought he wanted to hit her.

He wanted nothing more than to kiss her.

On the neck, along the throat to find with his mouth that pulsing vein, and prove to the both of them that even as she sat there stiffer than cut marble she was capable of something truly life-like. She was truly alive, and not just existing, because there was a difference. There was always a difference. She was capable of it. Of living. They all were. He was. Wasn't he?

The ache in his head. Now he wanted to fall. To fall until he couldn't stop.

He couldn't stop looking at her sitting there, statuesque in all of the wrong ways. It wasn't her fault. It wasn't his either. It wasn't anyone's fault.

It was the fault of the hungry beast they'd been fed to. The faceless, nameless black ogre of doubt and pain and self sufficiency that presided over the Hidden Leaf Village like a god; resting its jet black forearms on the tops of the tallest buildings and licking its blackened lips waiting for the opportunity to swallow something, namely a human heart, whole.

Yamato is keen to this. When he was born he was fitted with a glass heart. On this day, the final day that Anko shoved him, away it broke. But before that he took good care of it. He polished it every day until it gleamed and he could see in its smooth surface, his own reflection. The face of an awkward, brown eyed boy with a head full of people and a mouth full of secrets sealed tightly away, something dark and gripping lurking behind each tooth.

It was funny really. A wooden man with a glass heart. If you looked at it that way you could laugh and ignore the chafed parts, and nobody had to think about how many people were lost, how many things got broken, how many tears you could make somebody cry in a night until there wasn't a drop of moisture left to spill out. You could almost let yourself believe it was possible for somebody to live their life that way.

The poor boy was just a couple of busted matchsticks strung together with some twine and left out on a porch railing to fend for themselves, come dampening rain or sleet or ruinous snow. As he got older he got harder and more vacant inside. All the better to conceal that beneath the carefully latched door to the wooden box that was his chest, there was a breakable bauble. A transparent, because it was empty, artifact that would shatter with the slightest push of a Summer wind. Yet no matter how he tried to make things not matter he couldn't stop himself from wondering what it would be like to meet somebody that had a lighter and didn't mind flicking it on under his wooden limbs. Someone who wasn't afraid to set him on fire.

He knew from the very first time he met her that it could be Anko. He should have known she'd break his heart.

She had a smile like a case of store bought liquor. Both as easy and sweet as it was intoxicating. If he kissed her, he'd risk getting falling down drunk. He thought the heat he could feel emanating from her skin, whenever he got close enough to smell her honeyed scent, would be enough for him at last. He didn't think about Kakashi. He just wanted to hold her hand. He just wanted the times he managed to make her laugh to be everything for them. He didn't think about her silences, or the darkness swimming in her eyes sometimes when she thought he wasn't looking. He didn't really think about her, unless there was him involved somehow. Somehow,wedged between her self, molding himself into all of the enclaves and corners of her body and her thoughts.

The tension in his head subsided. He rubbed his neck. There was that heat again creeping across his face. The red alarm that let him know when he was getting too close to her. The flaming imprint, of the hot, red kisses they'd never shared flaring along the nape of his neck. What was he doing?

"Where is he?" he asked tiredly. Storm clouds were marching their way across her delicate face settling along her brow in fat, iron cast clumps.

"In the bath."

"Drunk or dead?"

"Yamato."

He slumped back into his seat. Looked away shaking his head. His skull was filling with the fire now, he could feel the steam coursing out of his ears, his vision turning red. The spinning room didn't help. Outside the kitchen window the moon was pirouetting, the stars were falling, jangled loose from the never-ending blanket of black, and falling like snow. Everything was getting so jumbled. He was standing in the kitchen rubbing his forehead. He was young. So young he could barely tell the difference between pain and pleasure. A bone white hand on his belly. The power that seared through him then split him open, reeked of sin. The smoky,blood curdling stench of black magic, as dark as the black locks that fell into his face, attached to the skeletal skull, attached to the white hand, the white face leaning closer and closer to his broken youth, flicking its serpentine tongue. He could taste oak beneath his tongue.

He opened his mouth and spit a wood chip into his palm. The smoky scent rolled around and around him, offering him its embrace and then retreating, bridging the gap between the sparse room in his mind and the one he was sitting in now with the person he loved and hated more than he had ever loved or hated anyone. More than anything in the world.

"Can you put out that stupid cigarette?"

She turned on him, then scowling "You know you don't have to be here."

"You know you don't have to be here."

So the line was drawn, but he still didn't know which side of it he was on. He didn't know anything. He wanted to touch her, but she probably wouldn't have let him.

There was another piece of wood in his mouth. This one was lodged between his back teeth, burrowing like a drill into his gums. He tasted blood. He tasted heat. He tried to move his hand to his mouth in an effort to dig it out, but his arm was too heavy. Was sprouting leaves and oak in place of skin. He tried to move his hands but they were tied down on either side of him. There was a seal on his forehead. It was cold, it was hot. He could smell the burning wood. He tried to scream, but his mouth filled with the earthy scent. He was choking. He was drowning. He was going to die. Somewhere in the distance a chair toppled over. It rattled against the ground, clanging loudly before it gave up the ghost and died. And lay there motionless in a heap like so many broken bones.

It was his. It was his chair. A kitchen. Yellowlight. He was standing. He blinked and the chip of wood was in his hand. And the visions were clearing from his eyes. And he could hear her heart beating, she was so close. She was standing so close to him. And he could see every thread of yellow and green and made up those golden eyes, and if he latched on to that sound, her beating heart, he could find a loophole in the earth and drag himself back up to the surface.

Her tiny hand against his cheek, and her skin was so soft and smooth, just as he always thought it might be. So delicate, so tissue paper soft that he mistook the concern in her eyes for something more. For a beast of an entirely different nature, but deadly just the same. For forever he had wanted to kiss her. A thousand times he almost had. On moonlit nights. Under cherry blossom trees. He could remember each of the constellations that had been visible, the exact pattern of those unapologetically pink leaves dancing brilliantly as they fell to a fate of twining fingers with the grass.

His heart in his chest, dizzy with the scent of her, he had almost kissed her. Leaned forward over the continents, and airways, and nothings between them and broken the promises they had never made. At least not out loud. He had almost said to her 'You know. You know who's better. You know who will treat you right.' Like in the movies. Just like in the movies. But the movies are never right about love. They get it all wrong. He could see it in her eyes all those times he had held himself back by the glass heartstrings, with so much force, the shards cut into his trembling hands. But the best thing about being wooden was that you couldn't bleed. Not on the outside. Not where anyone could see.

Not that it changes anything.

She had the same look in her eyes as he ducked his head towards hers. She was so close. And he could feel the flames roaring just beneath her skin, the rosy heat called to him. Beckoned him to reckless abandonment. He was trapped beneath the surface. Fighting up towards the unattainable air. And so fishing for pure escape he pressed his lips to hers.

Hard.

His eyes squeezed shut again and he gave himself over completely to his greed. With thirst as his shield and passion as his sword he fought back the ravenous loneliness that had been skulking around his heart busting out all of the windows and laying claim to fertile soil. He kissed her as he had never kissed anyone else before. And he didn't pull away until he'd had enough of her. And then both of them stood back standing there, breathing hard, and unable to look away, their eyes locked like homing missiles.

A beat of silence.

And then she slapped him.

Hard.

His head twisted away with the force. He could feel the bruise spreading, purple and ugly across his cheek. Or perhaps red. A scarlet letter of a handprint. He had felt many things before, but nothing was like this. As the adrenaline and the greed and the passion and the thirst turned tails and slithered away he was left with something rank and sour in the middle of his chest. He couldn't look at her. Could hear her breathing, raggedly somewhere on the other side of the kitchen now, but he couldn't bring himself to look. Sorry, he wanted to say. But not just for the kiss. She'd called him over because Kakashi was drunk. Again. And she was scared. Again. And she needed him. Again. And he liked being needed. And may'be he was sorry that he did. And may'be he was sorry that he came over. And may'be he was sorry for all of it.

Even the things he didn't do. The things they shared only between the two of them that were beyond his control. The curse mark. The wood. The black hair. This strangled kiss. This other person that seemed to live inside them both, just beneath the skin, trying to force its will on their lives.

Why else? Why else would she be here? When she could be with him? Why else would he be here? When he could be with….who? We are all so in love with love, when love cares nothing for us. We love what will hurt us. What will scar us. What will keep us coming back. A world full of masochists. The feeling is violent and bitter. And yet it knocks politely on the door of his heart and each time he politely opens up and lets it in. He lets the pain, masquerading as something more, stay in his heart indefinitely, rent free. Masochists, that's all we ever are.

Once he'd held her in his arms until she fell asleep. All night. Watching the shadows have their way with her fine china skin. Watching the moon watching her with a stubborn, loving eye. Watching her chest rise and fall, her cool breath against the side of his face, as he held her and wondered where Kakashi was. Wondered how much he'd had to drink, if he was coming back. Hoping that he wouldn't. She'd said his name, "Yamato." as she turned over, burrowing deeper down into him, the sheets balled in her little fist. Her head on his chest, she'd said his name. That was all he'd ever wanted.

"Kakashi loves me." She said to him now. "And I know you don't understand, but to be frank with you Yamato, it doesn't matter if you do or don't. This isn't about you, you know." Her tears were coming down her cheeks.

But you said you loved me, he wanted to say. May'be not out loud. Never out loud. But eyes didn't lie. Hands didn't lie. Laughter didn't lie. That night, that warmth. The space between them, he could barely control himself. Watching her as she slept so vulnerably, so close to him, her leg thrown across his as if it was nothing. He bit his lip. He counted to a thousand in his head. He tried to make himself think of mutilated puppies and battlefields of broken bones to keep from noticing the bare expanse of flesh just beneath her throat. The curve of her spine as she turned over beside him, oblivious to how badly he wanted to make her belong to him.

But he hadn't wanted to break anything. He hadn't wanted to hurt anyone. Not her. And not Kakashi. But only because of her. But the way she said his name, God. The way she said his name made him feel. Not so empty. He loved her. She loved him.

"You lo-"

A wet noise from the backroom, a splashing sound like a fish suddenly beached. Like a drunk man waking up in a tub full of water, the waves rising over his head, raping him of air. Anko was off like a rocket. She kicked the locked door down and Yamato didn't want to see, but he couldn't pull his eyes away. The water was everywhere, it was like watching a live birth watching her drag the gasping head above water, by the slick narrow shoulders. She fought with his limp weight until she had reeled him onto dry land, and kneeled beside him on the flooded tiles, cradling his choking body, sputtering torrents of water bubbled up on his chest.

She looked up at Yamato, dry eyed and said "Help me."

He stepped towards the door.

"Hurry, help me get him up." By up she meant air. "Help me." She was panicking. He stepped towards the door. The water curled around his feet and darkened the wood. He stopped. Choking. Coughing. Water gushing. From where now it was uncertain. He looked at her. She gritted her teeth.

"Yamato. Help. Me. Now."

Help me. Help me reject your love. Help me break you into bits until there's nothing left of you but firewood and a thousand shards of glass to be swept in a dustpan. A thousand phone calls hacking through a thousand aching nights. A thousand heavy silences pregnant with a thousand still born 'I love you's'. Her store bought liquor smile. Silver hairs hiding on her clothing, in the folds of her trenchcoat. A thousand fingerprints crawling like ants across her whorish heart. He shouldn't be bitter, he knows. He shouldn't be bitter.

But he is.

It's just that when she looks it at him, it's not the way she looks at Kakashi. Never has been. Never will be. He takes a step back. "Yamato?" He turns away. "Yamato?" It's not his story after all.

There are a thousand alternate endings, and even though nobody wants you to know this, you can choose which one gets printed. You can reach inside yourself and take your glass heart and crack it over your knee and toss it in the garbage disposal on your way across the lawn of the house that belongs to the girl who almost took the right to break it from you. You can open your heart and let love out and let it in again someday. Or may'be not.

Yamato edges around the house and out into the street. As the night falls faster and his feet kiss the cobblestone he looks around him at the village. All of the words are there, all of the children tucked in their beds, all of the ghosts dancing in the street under the old, old, light. He is both the pen and the paper. He had better get started.