Wind
Summary: One Shot: She let her hair grow long as she became a teenager. She would hide behind it, like a mask, like my mask.
Genre: Angst (Drama?)/Romance (Friendship?) They should have a "Reflection" genre. sigh
Rating: T
Author Notes: Yet another One Shot, plot bunnies have been attacking me lately. I'm working on "Doesn't Remind Me" I promise I really am! Just be patient, please? I'll update that story eventually, hopefully sooner then later.
Disclaimer: I don't own Naruto so don't sue me! I'm only 15 anyways; you wouldn't get anything but my pointe shoes if you sued me because that's all I own. So if you want smelly, stinky, dead pointe shoes then sue me and you can have them.
Please excuse any grammatical or spelling errors. I tried my best but I'm not perfect and we all know that spell-check doesn't catch everything. Also, I'm not an expert on Naruto and will never claim to be. I tried to stay as close to the timeline and the story as possible but if I made any mistakes then I'm sorry.
Please R&R…Thanks!
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The wind rustles my hair as I stand still in the silence, the sun rising behind me. I find it hard to stand here, in the graveyard of Konoha, not at my normal spot in front of the memorial stone. It's harder here, these aren't ninja's that have died in battle but civilians caught in the crossfire. I rarely come here; in fact I know not a single soul has ever seen me in this graveyard. Perhaps today will be the day someone catches me here, or perhaps not.
I come here only after a battle has taken place near, or God forbid inside, Konoha. I come here only when I fear someone I know has died; someone who is not a ninja, not a shinobi. It's rare though; there are very few people in my life who are not ninja's. But a couple weeks ago a battle had taken place in Konoha, our allies had betrayed us, our Hokage had been killed in that battle. Many Jounin died, even some Chuunin, but no Genin had died, for that I am thankfully. The Genins of Konoha are all too young to be dieing in battle. Unfortunately a few civilians had lost their lives, after all, the evacuation system is not full proof and there are some people who refused to evacuate, those people had met their deaths that day. Those idiots who valued their material goods over their lives had died, there were not many of them but even one is too many.
Today I grieve the death of a young woman my age, Rai. I never knew Rai for who she was, we were never friends, and we didn't even go to the same school. She was not a ninja; she was simply a cook at the Ramen shop that still stands today. In fact, I believe it's the same Ramen shop that Naruto eats at, the only Ramen shop I have ever been too. I used to eat there a lot when I was younger, my mother would take me all the time. Back when I still would remove my mask in public, back when I still didn't understand what being a child prodigy really meant. Hell, I couldn't even pronounce "prodigy." But when my mother died I rarely went to the Ramen shop, and if I did it was with Yondaime, Obito, or Rin, and I never ate anything.
I remember Rai's raven black hair and sea blue eyes. Her eyes always looked wet, like she had been crying, but it was just their colour. Rai had a younger sister too; I think she was three years younger. I believe she still works at the Ramen shop.
I remember watching Rai grow-up; she was a shy child and a shy teenager. I remember how her hair changed as the years went by. It was shorter when she was a child but she let it grow longer as she became a teenager. She would hide behind it, like a mask, like my mask. We were more of the same person then we ever realized. I saw the same loneliness in her eyes that I saw in mine. In another life, if I hadn't been a shinobi, if I hadn't lived the life I have and suffered like I have then we might have been friends; maybe even lovers. But as it stands we were no more then acquaintances trapped in the same pain.
Over the years I found out from the grapevine that she was part of the group of children who had lost their parents in the battle with the demon fox. She and her younger sister had been taken in by a family friend, by the owner of that Ramen shop.
They say she always wanted to be a ninja, wanted to follow in the footsteps of her parents but they wouldn't let her. They tried to shelter her from the world, tried to prevent her from the suffering that a ninja life brings. I can't blame them; if I ever had children I would probably do the same thing. I don't think I would ever be able to let my child become a ninja; I wouldn't be able to send them to their death like that. Not that I will ever have children anyways so it's not really problem I will ever have to deal with. But morally it just seems wrong to me to send children to suffer like that. Sending them to academy's to train when they're really too young to be making their own decisions and are just blindly trusting and following their parent's ideas. Too bad many parents have fucked up ideas and morals and pass those on to their children. In the end, it's not my problem to deal with anyways so I should really just stop worrying about it. It's just that it hits home for me, everyday I wish my father had never pushed me into the live of a ninja. I blindly followed my father and by the time I formed my own ideas and understood the world around me and the life I was leading it was too late to go back. It's always too late for me.
Turned out her birthday was the same as mine, definitely an odd coincidence. One I never knew about until yesterday. I assume her birthdays were often more exciting then mine, not that it really matters. I've never enjoyed birthdays anyways, just a celebration of another year of suffering. Perhaps if I manage to grow old then I may begin to enjoy them but I doubt I'll ever live to reach that age.
I blink, one eye staring at the name engraved on the tombstone. It was the writing of Rai's younger sister; I recognize it from the writing on the menu board at the Ramen shop. It's amazing how neat that girl can carve into the stone; it looks exactly like her ever-perfect writing. I realize then, that I never knew Rai's last name until now. I never bothered to find out. I wonder if she ever knew what my name was. Did she ever ask? Did she ever wonder who I was? Did she ever care for me like I cared for her? Can I really care so deeply for a person I never even knew?
Her eyes would haunt me until the day I died: those cold, distant, lonely eyes. The eyes that mirrored mine, that were so much like mine. Did she suffer as much as I have? I really don't know: I never dared to ask.
I remember when I turned twenty and was finally allowed to go to bars. I never frequented them; in fact I only ever went to one bar in all of Konoha. I was never there for fun; I was never there for a good time. I was there to forget and I was there to pretend. I'd get just drunk enough to forget my pain.
Rai worked at that bar.
I never noticed until a couple weeks after I started going there. I assumed it was better money then the Ramen shop. She was, after all, a very beautiful young women and she probably got a lot of tips. She was shy though, very shy. I never really saw her talk to anyone but her boss and few of the other waitresses she worked with.
Perhaps I should've talked to her instead of waiting for her to talk to me.
I remember a couple nights when I would stay longer then normal, stay longer then Rai's shift. When I'd leave I'd often see Rai in some dark alley or side street on my way home. She'd be talking to some man I wouldn't be able to recognize and she'd be trading her hard earned money for a small bag of some sort of substance, often white and often powdery.
It was not my place to judge her; after all I've had my own dealings and experiments with drugs over the years. I smile at the memories and the ignorance of the Third Hokage. Drugs were not a huge problem in Konoha but they were a problem. And in times of unease and when we're on the edge of an open war we can't afford to have our Jounins fall under the pressure and become drug addicts. No, drugs were not a problem but if you wanted them they were not hard to find. Walk into any dark alley after midnight and chances are you'll find a drug dealer there, all too willing to explain to you the details of the different drugs he offers and how to use them. Money is a powerful force and many people don't care how many lives they ruin for it.
I remember the night I had stayed in the bar far longer then normal. I left just a few hours before the sun rose and on my way home I say Rai in the same alley I had seen her in so many times. I never got the full story from her; in fact I don't even remember what happened, I think it had to do with her owing some people money. I had been the drunkest I have ever been in my life. I try to stay away from getting completely and utterly drunk, it makes me feel too much like my father. But even when I was out of my mind I still managed to beat the shit out of three drug dealers fucked up on cocaine. I walked Rai home that night and crashed at her place. I left early the next morning, never saying a word to her.
We never spoke about that night. Did she even remember it?
The sun has risen now; I can see my shadow slowly stretching out in front of me. How long have I been here? An hour, two hours, three hours? I've lost track of time, like I've done so many times. I smile underneath my mask, the coldness of the morning drifting out of my body and the frost melting off the grass. The grass that was too green, too tidy for a graveyard. I heard through the grapevine that Rai died protecting her sister. Apparently her sister was one of those idiots who hadn't evacuated, who put more value in her material goods, in the Ramen shop, then in her own life. Rai was a civilian who died a hero. I'm not sure if that's what really happened but I'm content with it. I can live believing Rai died like that, died strong. Died protecting her important people.
I walk over to the tombstone and kneel in front of it. I run my hands over the perfect carving of Rai's name and remember the women I never knew.
"Goodbye Rai."
I listen to my words fade away, carried off to some unknown land by the soft wind whistling in my ears. I listen to the sound of the morning birds and the rustling leaves. I listen to the sound of life all around me.
In the end, does it really matter how someone dies? After all, every person is just as dead as the next one.
I walk away; walk as far away from that foreboding graveyard as I can. I store Rai's memory away with every other memory of the people I loved, the people I cared about; the people who are dead.
"Goodbye Rai," I whisper into the silence.
It would be the last time I ever say her name.