Kakurenbo
It's very cold. So cold that deep inside me is starting to feel like the outside and things inside me shudder and hurt in a way I know they're not supposed too. My muscles don't really move when I want them too very well anymore.
I want to shiver so badly, but I stop myself somehow by holding everything tight and stiff. Shivering would shake the tall, brown grass and Zabuza-san would find me. That can't happen again.
There's water in my hair and it drips in my eyes. Stings… But I can't rub it away. Don't dare move or he'll find me again.
The grass hides me, but its scratchy, and pokey, and I don't like it one bit, but it hides me. It's the best place to hide, except when there's no wind, because when it's not windy and the grass moves, Zabuza-san comes and…
My shoulder hurts, but that part is warm…warm with the slow, red drip. I shudder. Can't stop it. I don't want Zabuza-san to find me again.
My cloths are so heavy…wet, but they get stiff real quick. It's too cold.
I'll never try hiding in the pond again. I thought I was hid good, way far out in the pond, underwater, breathing with a hollow stick. Zabuza-san just walked out on the pond to where I was, and looked down at me.
I never knew Zabuza-san walked on water.
Zabuza-san looked down at me…looked me right in the eyes. I tried to swim away…really it did…but I was grabbed so fast. Grabbed my hair and lifted me out of the pond. Zabuza-san told me how stupid I was for picking such an awful hiding spot where I couldn't get away and he…
It hurt. It hurt very much.
I can't feel my fingers or toes and they won't move no matter how hard I try to. They don't even feel cold anymore. I think they're freezing, turning white and getting covered with frost like the grass in the morning. At least…that's what it feels like.
I concentrate on the energy inside me, on the…on the…the chakara, like Zabuza-san showed me. I think I can make it make my fingers warm again. Like this…
"Ahh—" I cry out before I can bite my lip.
Itai.
It hurts…
The burning in my fingers. They're on fire!
Zabuza-san it hurts sooo bad.
I stop with the chakara thing right away, but there's still the burning hurt in my fingers. Stop please. I want the hurt to go away.
I don't want my fingers if they have to hurt so bad. Just cut them off. It must hurt less.
Make it stop…
"…Zabuza-san…"
-----***------
Kid's really whimpering now, just a continuous stream of little hurt animal sounds. Advertising with ridiculous clarity to the ears of any shinobi with a brain to fill the space between, position, age, physical condition and numerous other bits of information. Perhaps he's just given up on staying hidden, or maybe he's just forgotten he was supposed to hiding as if his life depended on it.
No, probably not that…hopefully not that. I haven't been watching that brat try to hide for months all to have this nothing just…
Suddenly, a rush of synapses and something clicks in my head, the way he's cradling his fingers, his stiff clothes, the sudden almost instant yelp of pain… I realize now what must have happened, what must have caused this outpouring of pain-whimpers.
Heh… So he's precocious, if none too bright.
I feel myself recalling the lessons I've been giving the brat involuntarily, mind racing through all those tediously boring incidents without my conscious permission.
Some of our more recent encounters have ended with an explanation on some of the very basic, enough for a kid anyway, theories of chakara existence, properties, and production...
I haven't even mentioned channeling chakara.
I smile.
Not a smile of pride or joy or any of those sentimental crap-emotions the world could do without.
Just a feeling of…I picked a keeper.
Jumping down lightly from the low hanging, but well concealed branch, I make my way over to the whimpering boy, reconsidering his training schedule. It now needs major revisions.
I'm not pushing him nearly hard enough.
The grass rustles ever so slightly as I pass through it with every tiny twitch I make, and as I come to the tightly curled figure I pause to absorb this tiny picture of abject misery. The moans of pain are quieter, but low and thrumming, a constant outpouring of hurt, and he shuddering with such an intense violence I'm surprised his body hasn't shaken itself to pieces. I feel my heart drop.
…
It must be from disappointment at his weakness.
Must be.
I take one step further and manage to enter the boy's peripheral vision, as one scrawny arm, fingers tensed and clawed, lashes out, in an unexpected blur of motion. And nearly before I register his movements or his scream of panicked rage I'm reaching out with my right hand stopping his wild swing dead, dangerously grinding the delicate bone of his left wrist in my grip and his tiny hand flops over, limp above my fist.
I'm so caught in the moment of contemplating his hand that, only some sort of strange preserving instinct, makes my lower body jump back out of harms way, as the kid's other arm flies by, before I can catch that wrist as well.
He slumps in my grip, facing away from me, as a hold his wrists high, making his slender, far too fragile shoulders twist uncomfortably and his back bow by his own weight. The kid shudders and makes breathy quiet sobs between deep and gasping breaths, a mixture of exertion, pain and terror that echoes with a sort of obscene clarity in the empty barren winter meadow.
Still so fragile...weak…
I take a moment to examine his limp hands and finger, raised high above the rest of his body. They're burning angry red, in a contrast sharp as fresh blood compared to the rest of his pale skin.
Shit. He cooked 'em good. These are going to take weeks to heal, all the while the little bastard slips backwards what little progress he's made… Shit…
I jerk his arms forward quickly to get his attention, wrenching his shoulders painfully in their sockets and likely aggravating the superficial shoulder wound I gave him earlier for being stupid.
The kid just really needs a good beating when he pulls something stupid.
The brat cries out at the rough treatment and I resist the urge to slap him into silence. I've been resisting a lot lately.
"Haku," I yell sharply, and he immediately ceases his shaking and crying, then after a brief moment of motionlessness arches up and backwards, drop his head until he faces me; eyes and nose wet and drippy. He face is dirty, but streaked where his tears have carved and clean path through the grime. His eyes meet mine, silently, reverently.
I sigh, and gather him up in my arms, "Let's go home."
Please R&R ^^
It's very cold. So cold that deep inside me is starting to feel like the outside and things inside me shudder and hurt in a way I know they're not supposed too. My muscles don't really move when I want them too very well anymore.
I want to shiver so badly, but I stop myself somehow by holding everything tight and stiff. Shivering would shake the tall, brown grass and Zabuza-san would find me. That can't happen again.
There's water in my hair and it drips in my eyes. Stings… But I can't rub it away. Don't dare move or he'll find me again.
The grass hides me, but its scratchy, and pokey, and I don't like it one bit, but it hides me. It's the best place to hide, except when there's no wind, because when it's not windy and the grass moves, Zabuza-san comes and…
My shoulder hurts, but that part is warm…warm with the slow, red drip. I shudder. Can't stop it. I don't want Zabuza-san to find me again.
My cloths are so heavy…wet, but they get stiff real quick. It's too cold.
I'll never try hiding in the pond again. I thought I was hid good, way far out in the pond, underwater, breathing with a hollow stick. Zabuza-san just walked out on the pond to where I was, and looked down at me.
I never knew Zabuza-san walked on water.
Zabuza-san looked down at me…looked me right in the eyes. I tried to swim away…really it did…but I was grabbed so fast. Grabbed my hair and lifted me out of the pond. Zabuza-san told me how stupid I was for picking such an awful hiding spot where I couldn't get away and he…
It hurt. It hurt very much.
I can't feel my fingers or toes and they won't move no matter how hard I try to. They don't even feel cold anymore. I think they're freezing, turning white and getting covered with frost like the grass in the morning. At least…that's what it feels like.
I concentrate on the energy inside me, on the…on the…the chakara, like Zabuza-san showed me. I think I can make it make my fingers warm again. Like this…
"Ahh—" I cry out before I can bite my lip.
Itai.
It hurts…
The burning in my fingers. They're on fire!
Zabuza-san it hurts sooo bad.
I stop with the chakara thing right away, but there's still the burning hurt in my fingers. Stop please. I want the hurt to go away.
I don't want my fingers if they have to hurt so bad. Just cut them off. It must hurt less.
Make it stop…
"…Zabuza-san…"
-----***------
Kid's really whimpering now, just a continuous stream of little hurt animal sounds. Advertising with ridiculous clarity to the ears of any shinobi with a brain to fill the space between, position, age, physical condition and numerous other bits of information. Perhaps he's just given up on staying hidden, or maybe he's just forgotten he was supposed to hiding as if his life depended on it.
No, probably not that…hopefully not that. I haven't been watching that brat try to hide for months all to have this nothing just…
Suddenly, a rush of synapses and something clicks in my head, the way he's cradling his fingers, his stiff clothes, the sudden almost instant yelp of pain… I realize now what must have happened, what must have caused this outpouring of pain-whimpers.
Heh… So he's precocious, if none too bright.
I feel myself recalling the lessons I've been giving the brat involuntarily, mind racing through all those tediously boring incidents without my conscious permission.
Some of our more recent encounters have ended with an explanation on some of the very basic, enough for a kid anyway, theories of chakara existence, properties, and production...
I haven't even mentioned channeling chakara.
I smile.
Not a smile of pride or joy or any of those sentimental crap-emotions the world could do without.
Just a feeling of…I picked a keeper.
Jumping down lightly from the low hanging, but well concealed branch, I make my way over to the whimpering boy, reconsidering his training schedule. It now needs major revisions.
I'm not pushing him nearly hard enough.
The grass rustles ever so slightly as I pass through it with every tiny twitch I make, and as I come to the tightly curled figure I pause to absorb this tiny picture of abject misery. The moans of pain are quieter, but low and thrumming, a constant outpouring of hurt, and he shuddering with such an intense violence I'm surprised his body hasn't shaken itself to pieces. I feel my heart drop.
…
It must be from disappointment at his weakness.
Must be.
I take one step further and manage to enter the boy's peripheral vision, as one scrawny arm, fingers tensed and clawed, lashes out, in an unexpected blur of motion. And nearly before I register his movements or his scream of panicked rage I'm reaching out with my right hand stopping his wild swing dead, dangerously grinding the delicate bone of his left wrist in my grip and his tiny hand flops over, limp above my fist.
I'm so caught in the moment of contemplating his hand that, only some sort of strange preserving instinct, makes my lower body jump back out of harms way, as the kid's other arm flies by, before I can catch that wrist as well.
He slumps in my grip, facing away from me, as a hold his wrists high, making his slender, far too fragile shoulders twist uncomfortably and his back bow by his own weight. The kid shudders and makes breathy quiet sobs between deep and gasping breaths, a mixture of exertion, pain and terror that echoes with a sort of obscene clarity in the empty barren winter meadow.
Still so fragile...weak…
I take a moment to examine his limp hands and finger, raised high above the rest of his body. They're burning angry red, in a contrast sharp as fresh blood compared to the rest of his pale skin.
Shit. He cooked 'em good. These are going to take weeks to heal, all the while the little bastard slips backwards what little progress he's made… Shit…
I jerk his arms forward quickly to get his attention, wrenching his shoulders painfully in their sockets and likely aggravating the superficial shoulder wound I gave him earlier for being stupid.
The kid just really needs a good beating when he pulls something stupid.
The brat cries out at the rough treatment and I resist the urge to slap him into silence. I've been resisting a lot lately.
"Haku," I yell sharply, and he immediately ceases his shaking and crying, then after a brief moment of motionlessness arches up and backwards, drop his head until he faces me; eyes and nose wet and drippy. He face is dirty, but streaked where his tears have carved and clean path through the grime. His eyes meet mine, silently, reverently.
I sigh, and gather him up in my arms, "Let's go home."
Please R&R ^^