Diaries of Spring
Part I
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Spring—? Yes, it was that when we came to Leaf—gosh, I don't remember. When was this . . . fifteen years? The mountain—I remember liking the faces in the stones, big wooden houses, Shinobis walking out in the open . . . where did this all happen? It was strange, 'cause my ma had told me that things were different in the Shinobi Village—this village that they called Leaf.
Leaf . . . ? Strange name? I'd thought, but what does a child know? Under the leaves—hidden by the leaves—no, it was Hidden in Leaf! Odd thing to call a village full of warriors, but I was beside myself. Ran from one shop to the next, ma and pa in tow. Children are energetic like that. The onlookers thought that my hair looked odd; but they didn't look—they . . . stared—not at me, but at pa—his dirty hair, hands, face, and a messy bag he carried on his back.
I didn't make much of it, but what does a child know? I'd forgotten much, but I—don't know why I remember the eyes. A glint that made me feel . . . little . . . too little . . . what's there to write? I don't know, but she told me to write, so I will. I don't know big words. No one in my house knew big words. I was always lost in the streets, carrying things my father made, and he made good, sweet, warm biscuits—from barley. From street to street, back in our old village, everyone loved them—everyone!
A family business! he'd say and show me really big teeth that were straight and clean. Often, he'd sit on the floor and get dirt behind his nails, in his hair, on his face . . . he didn't care, and I? I didn't care, either—not back then. Our house was small—too small. A little room where we all slept, a kitchen by the garden, and a place for us to sit.
We grew things in the garden—little herbs pa would make medicines out of. Sickly. Bitter. Stinky. They make 'em well! ma would say, hair very much like a frizzy sun, when she sat in the garden and dirtied her hands, hair, face. Dirt would get in her clothes, too, and I'd sit with her and smile, 'cause she was my ma—and children love their mas? And what was not to love? She loved me, cooked me good food, made me clothes with her own hands! Not many children could say that their mothers would do that.
The dolls she made from wool . . . ? She'd give one to me on every birthday—that now, I had six of them! I'd kept each one nice and clean in my trunk. Then summer started, and it was never the same again . . .
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. . . how easy the world is to a child? You can't know everything, and at night, I'd sit in the garden and look up at the stars and think long and hard . . . silly things. Can I get one, give it to my ma—my pa? Fly and go up and up—there into the black—dream? Things children think without thinking. You want to be big, but in the world you're small, but you don't know—not yet!
At night, I'd dream of being big and strong, defeating foes—in the morning, I'd go with pa to shops. Everyone would turn us away. Why? I'd ask, and my father would say that they don't know how good our biscuits are; and I'd believe him—always . . . why would he lie? He had no reason. A family business—a craft . . .
Days passed by like this, and we had very little money. Pa said that he'd need to go away to other villages. Leaf didn't like our biscuits? I'd ask myself, standing by the door, looking at my mother's lips sagging down. Then he left, and I was left with my mother to carry things to big houses . . . of Clans!
Fancy houses—so big that my house looked so small; and it made me feel uneasy, afraid like I'd—like my heart would burst. I couldn't explain the feeling, but when I saw a girl with her mother, her clothes had shocked me . . . I was nothing like her. Her kimono . . . clean, pretty, silky. Hair . . . better than mine.
I didn't understand, and I wanted to ask her, too, but she didn't speak to me. Ma's tone was different—muted. She never talked to me like this, and they stood far away from us, like they didn't want to come close—to touch . . . was I . . . dirty? And I kept looking at her shiny face, pin in the hair, smooth skin . . . I was nothing like her—nothing . . . but why? I questioned again and again, but I'd got no answer—not one! What would a child know?
We left the house, and it was like I'd cut out a part of my heart and left it there, too. The dolls—so pretty—every single one, lovely little things that sat in the rack! My ma didn't make 'em like that—she didn't know how. Where had her mother learned to make 'em like that? Pa couldn't sell good biscuits. Ma couldn't make good dolls. Not like the ones I'd like—ones that'd look pretty . . .
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Autumn came, and I was seven now. I think? No longer Six. Did all years pass away like this, in a beat? You blink . . . and you're older—old . . . ? Pa would go away often now, and every time he came back, I noticed that he was different. I could see lines in his face. They used to go away, but now, they began to stay more and more, and the dirt in them made me feel . . . like I had to hide—run away somewhere!
So I would, 'cause I could! Isn't that what it was all about—what you could and couldn't do? Growing up was supposed to be happy, but I began to dislike everything about me. No—no, it wasn't resentment; it was something different, a different gaze that makes you be aware of the things you thought didn't matter; and it was always the little things: my old dress, woolen dolls, broken shoes . . . dusty floor, little house, small garden . . . why wasn't I like the other children, Shinobis' children? Why was everything—everyone—unfair? I didn't have any answers, and my ma and pa didn't have them, either. I could never ask; they could never tell . . .
Now, every time I was turned away from the shops, I'd notice the eyes. The look—it was there, and I didn't know what it was; but it made me feel something I didn't want to feel . . . my heart would sink, and I'd run off out into the forest, throw away the bag into the grass by the lake, and weep . . .
I'd tremble and I'd cry and I'd look . . . up at the stars again; and I'd wish, wish harder and harder, that one day I'd pluck one from the dark and sell it and go far away from here. Somewhere where I'd be happy . . . then I'd wipe my face clean, smile, and make up my mind to do just that and return home to my worried ma . . .
It was a very black night when I'd finally learned something—my mother making a little dress for me from pieces of old clothes. She smiled and put it on me, and I felt . . . like an old cloth, too, pieced together . . . bit by bit . . . and I looked at my feet, and I couldn't see them, 'cause I was . . . poor? Poor . . . for the first in my life, I'd found out that I didn't belong . . . not in a village of proud warriors . . .
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Winter in Leaf was cold—a thing I'd never experienced . . . it'd eat into my bones, and the feeling was . . . was like death? I didn't know what death was—not back then, but my heart would never sit still. The house was small, so the wood my father brought home warmed it up quickly. We'd made a little money as many children got sick from cold. What was cold? I didn't know, but their noses ran, and it looked . . . dirty!
The herbs Pa had grown all spring were dry. I could no longer see the pink flowers. A little black, they crumbled away in my little hands. I helped pa with the tea that, as he'd say, was enough to chase away the cold! Many came to our house—grunt Shinobi—not the big ones . . .
And one told my pa that I should become a Shinobi, too. Could I? I'd asked—not my pa, but myself; but he'd laughed, not knowing what to say to the Shinobi. He was always simple like that . . . but my mind was made, and there was no changing it. I'd tell my pa that I didn't want to be a merchant anymore. I hated the biscuits. I hated it that my ma would wash my hair with the soap that she'd use on clothes, too. It made my hair rough, messy, ugly. I wanted them to be silky like the other girls' hair; and they'd look at me, very surprised, and then they'd look at each other . . .
They didn't understand. I wasn't happy. I didn't have any toys—not the ones I'd like—and the children that played in the grounds didn't want anything to do with me. They'd look at me funny, and I'd know that they thought I looked dirty . . . a dirty little merchant girl—who'd want to play with her in a village full of Shinobis?
And I'd stand at the edge of the grounds, looking . . . but no one would ever look at me . . . I'd stay like this by the tree for hours on-end, hiding in its shadow, but no one would come for me. Then, one by one, they'd leave, and the sky would be dark and black and deep again—and one by one, stars would come out and wink, and I'd think of plucking one again . . .
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Spring—another spring, and I was inducted into the Genin Academy. It took every penny they'd made to do that, but I was happy. My hair—ma had washed it with a better soap that she'd bought from a shop. Now, it looked shiny, pink like the Sakura flowers!
At ten, the whole world looks big to you. Bigger than it is, though it's 'cause you're small. Ma and Pa had worn good clothes, too—better than the ones that they'd always wear. Things were . . . a bit better; but it's never easy, is it? Not for a merchant girl—never for a dirty merchant girl. Forehead girl! they'd say, but I'd never thought that my forehead was big? Was it? I could make my hair shiny, wear better clothes, study hard—but I couldn't change my forehead. It made me feel . . . ugly.
In the morning, I'd stand in front of the mirror and hide my forehead by combing just the right way. It really was big, wasn't it? I noticed that my hands weren't as soft as the other girl's. Rough. Clean—but still dirty? What could I do? How much could I . . . change? What could I do to be . . . happy?
I began to hate myself, too; but ma would say that I'm pretty and tie a little ribbon round my head, a flower-like bow at my temple. Liar! I'd think out of spite. What good are a ma's eyes if others can't see through them? So I'd study hard, 'cause the dirty merchant girl didn't know anything else—not big words. If I wasn't pretty like them, I'd be better at everything else!
Then a woman came to me one day; and she was beautiful—too beautiful. Shiny gold hair; brown eyes, warmer than the biscuits pa baked; Lips—rose-like, rosier than ma's. She was everything I wasn't . . . she asked me to make her the tea my pa could make, and I did! Drinking, she smiled, closing her eyes like she was amused.
She said that I could control chakra well—my academy teacher had told her. Was it something to be proud of? I'd asked, and, "oh, yes!" she'd said a bit musically, and her lips got so red that I thought they'd bleed. How did she make her lips like that? How . . . was she so pretty? Could I be like her . . . could I be her? I was thinking so many things in my little head that I didn't quite get. I chased after one thing and then another—distracted like a cat in a barn.
And I smiled . . . and spring ended—just like that . . .
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I saw my twelfth summer in better spirits. At top of my class, I was the talk of the Academy. No longer a dirty merchant girl children wouldn't like to sit with—no, I was the smart, brainy girl who the big, beautiful Tsunade-Hime liked! A girl who could become a good Medic some day! The world was big, but I was no longer small—I felt big, too!
For the first time in my life inside Leaf, I was . . . happy. In my dreams, I defeated foes and touched the stars and plucked one . . . it—it was possible now. I could be something, too. I could . . . want things, too—have things . . . my hair, no longer messy, was smooth like the other girls' hair, who'd got Jōnin pas.
The boys would look at me, and one boy said that I was pretty—too pretty. A silly boy, blue-eyed, hair too-yellow and untidy. "Uzumaki Naruto, and I'd be Hokage someday!" he'd yell and announce to the class, and I'd smile 'cause he was silly . . . his father, Namikaze Minato; mother, Uzumaki Kushina—big people. They weren't little merchants like ma and pa . . . why couldn't they be like them, too? I'd ask, but I was much too young to change things . . .
I was awarded bursary for my talents, from which I'd buy many clothes, shoes, items to . . . make myself pretty; but Naruto that odd boy would say that I was very pretty and didn't need any of that. He was a boy; he didn't know; he couldn't . . . know what a girl's heart was like, 'cause when it got hurt, it was hurt for years . . .
He'd often take me to the meadow by the river and talk of a friend he missed—sometimes, lilies would grow there; and I'd never seen any flowers like 'em—purple and sleepy . . . ? They'd sleep through the day, and at night, they'd wake up and sway like little children under moon—and I could tell that they were young, sweet-smelling, too beautiful to be true . . .
Naruto would laugh, and we'd look at the river that was dark but noisy, and he'd say, "I'd marry you someday, and we'd have children—lots of 'em. I hate being lonely!" and laugh—and when I'd look at his big flower-blue eyes, poppy-flower hair, I'd smile, not knowing what to say . . .
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It was autumn when I'd bled . . . the strangest feeling I'd ever felt. Twelve, a child, but ma told me that it was normal for girls to grow in this age. It was . . . ? It was not like I'd ever given it much thought. Still a Genin, I wasn't taught anything but things about chakra, herbs, Jutsu . . . I wasn't good at anything but what I knew. Once a merchant girl, always a merchant girl! pa would say proudly, and I'd . . . hate him for it . . .
It was around this time, I'd stopped calling 'em ma and pa—no, they were mother and father now—new people, not old peddlers from a forgotten village. They looked strangely at me when I told them that that's what I'd call them now, but they didn't say anything. Thought—I thought I saw a hurting glimmer in my ma—mother's eyes; but it was gone, and I was satisfied . . . that was how it was going to be—always!
My mind was made, and like before, there was no changing it. I kept bleeding, and so did Leaf. Colours went away, and I missed the warm summer days. Everything was rotten out here, but not in the meadow—no, lilies grew up; looked bigger, shinier, prettier, like they'd eaten up the moon, little by little—and I didn't think a flower could enchant the eyes, but it did! What was this . . . this flower if not magic?
I'd tell this to Naruto, and he'd laugh at me for being weird; but what would he know? He didn't know flowers like I did. I knew which parts produced the smell, which could be used for tea, and which for . . . poison. Flowers were . . . strange. You could give 'em to the one you loved, hated, envied—and they worked every time. My mother said that I was like a flower, a Sakura flower. Was it just the hair? She was a liar . . .
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Then it was winter all of a sudden, and I'd gotten used to bleeding every month. The messiness . . . was routine; but sometimes, when I'd forget, it made a mess on the bed—a big red stain. Mother would insist on cleaning it up, but I'd tell her that I was fourteen—a big girl!
Our house was bigger now. I'd used some bursary to make it bigger—father, my pa in the past, had spoken against it; but it wasn't like he had a choice—he was wrong about this. I'd paid some money and hired people to build more of it. I didn't want Naruto to come over and see it like this . . . I'd never brought him to my house, even when he said please. I . . . it shamed me, and I hated the feeling of being lost . . . little . . .
. . . but my father would still go out and sell things in another village. I don't want to be a burden on you, he'd say, but I'd hate him for it, 'cause every time he came back, his hair was dirty . . . nails were dirty . . . face, dirtier . . . and I'd run away from home, crying, hands clenched like something was after me . . .
And I'd lie down among the lilies that'd smile back at me—so beautiful like I'd never be . . . and look up again at the stars that were there—always there . . . and I'd still want to pluck them out—one by one—bit by bit—piece by piece . . . to make something of me, too . . . a me I'd never known . . .
And I'd seen him for the first time . . . a boy who could make me . . . he was sleeping . . . while sitting on his brother's thigh. I could only see a bit of the boy who looked no older than ten . . . young . . . but so beautiful that I thought I was dreaming . . . I wanted to ask his name, but his brother made me afraid.
So I placed my Chūnin Application scroll on the table of the older brother who now ruled much of Leaf and ran down the street that was quiet at night, rain on the stones . . . I was very happy. I don't remember what I'd said to my mother, but when I went to my room and lay down on my back, I looked out the window . . . at the stars and thought of the beautiful boy again . . .
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Two years—sixteen like that. Spring was long gone—Sakura withered away in Autumn's angry storms. They'd begun to stay more and more . . . Winter was not far, and I went home less and less. I'd rented my own apartment. My house—I resented its smell. Everything about it . . . ? I didn't miss it one bit.
My mother insisted that I'd stay, but I couldn't bear to look at my father's dirty old face anymore. He'd come by the Academy, and I'd begin to feel small in the people's eyes again. I hated it—hated everything about it. Why couldn't I run past this like everything else? Why was I still a girl that I thought I'd left behind . . . ? Why wasn't I just a good Medic like Tsunade-Sama said . . . ? People always remembered—they never let you forget . . . never . . .
Kushina—Naruto's cold mother, pretty as faerie-tale queens. When she looked at me, her eyes . . . made me feel the littlest that I'd ever felt. They swallowed me whole, chewed me up, spat me out. I wasn't good enough for her son; and why would I be? Dirty merchant girl from a family of Haruno peddlers . . . I'd think to myself and smile a brave smile that hid much of what I wanted to hide. It wasn't like I could change her heart, and just like that, my dreams of marrying Naruto were broken to pieces, but I'd made peace with that . . . that it was just not meant to be . . .
All around me, things changed and girls talked about sex—boys, too; but Naruto was like a little boy. I couldn't imagine myself lying close to him like that—letting him in me . . . he was unhappy that his mother hadn't liked me; and just like that, I was back to being a dirty merchant girl again . . .
He cried, buried his face in my lap, and told me that he'd ask Sasuke to keep him when he'd come; but his brother was . . . "an evil fucking bastard!" he'd yelled out between hiccups and startled me. Sasuke . . . ? He talked about him often, but I'd never seen him. An Uchiha! Naruto had told me one rainy day when we sat under a big tree; but Sasuke stayed in the big Uchiha Village, and his brother—a very evil fucking bastard, something Naruto never let me forget—hadn't let him out in years. What a strange brother . . . ?
Naruto told me that he was lonely, but I was always worried about myself to notice anything. He had good parents—big house—shiny clothes. Why was he sad? I couldn't understand—never could understand him. Then he jumped up and yelled, "Sasuke!" and ran towards a silhouette that loomed up from the bend of this meadow.
. . . and I got up, too—went to the boy . . . and when I saw him, my world was never the same again . . .
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Part II
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. . . my autumns . . .not the same again . . . never the same. Looking at the boy like I was under a spell, I knew that I'd seen him—seen him sleep in the dark before. A dream—a dream, wasn't he? I told my heart, 'cause I didn't know what I felt—not then—not now—not ever! Somethings are very hard to say . . . even now, I can't tell—don't tell what's it like to be in love . . . somethings are too dear to your heart to share . . . secrets you want to keep forever; and he was mine to keep—maybe forever . . .
He stood in the light—so young—sun on him. Sweet-milk white. Black hair. Eyes . . . night skies I used to look up at and hope—with all my heart to reach, but never could. Beautiful—too beautiful like perfect dreams I used to make as a little girl who'd come with many dreams into Leaf . . . even now, I suppose, 'cause you never lose your dreams—they lose you . . .
I didn't know I'd stopped moving, breathing, speaking; and he looked at me once, and my heart made a leap so big—bigger than hungry cats at scared birds. Didn't even smile and looked away; and I . . . I was heart-broken. His eyes, stars in the face, didn't make me feel little—no, I felt lost like I was meant to be lost . . .
Naruto dragged the boy to the tree and made him sit down beside him; and then he kept talking and wouldn't stop talking; and the boy, Sasuke, kept listening, but I could tell that he'd grown tired of listening. It was always the same with Naruto, pleading, begging, hoping—a little sad, I'd think, but I wanted Sasuke to speak to me, too, say something . . . anything . . . to calm my heart.
I'd never been so happy, and I didn't know why. Here was an Uchiha boy I'd never met before, and already I wanted him for myself. Was it selfish? Maybe, but it was fair, I thought. It wasn't like I'd asked and he'd refused to be with me. And like foolish children, I'd begun weaving my dreams (faster than my mother wove woolen dolls), hand moving towards his, comparing his skin to mine . . . that was rough, dark, dirty unlike his . . . he wasn't poor—I could tell . . . 'cause he looked like a child prince from faerie-tales—no, lovelier than the child prince from faerie-tales. So unfair . . . !
I wanted to grab hold of his hand while he sat quietly like a bored adult between the two of us . . . looked at the sun sinking, eyes pieces from nights I'd always loved. Then, without thinking, I'd touched his fingers, and he looked at me . . . no expression in his eyes, stood up, and walked away, with Naruto right behind him, yelling . . . and I didn't know what I'd done wrong . . .
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Were winters always strange . . . ? I'd soon realized that Sasuke, that beautiful Uchiha boy who was cold to me, was everything I ever wanted to be—and more . . . gifted in a way no one was, he learned everything just like that. He already knew how to cover metal with Chakra—Elemental Chakra, too . . . but how . . . ? How was I not able to do this, but he was?
And in a week, he overtook me and went so far ahead that all I could do was look at his back and . . . hope . . . dream . . . I tried and I tried and I tried, but couldn't reach where he was—a star in the night I wished to touch so badly . . . it was—was like I took one step and he hundreds—thousands! And I was back to where I was before . . . a girl forgotten . . . and he was the apple of people's eye . . . big men who came from other villages to hire him for big work, and I was little . . . again . . .
And I'd worked so hard—harder than everyone to reach where I was; and now, I was tossed out of the place that I'd thought was mine—was meant to me mine—a place I deserved! Why was this so hard? I'd thought—no, hoped that my wits would be enough to win everyone's heart—even his . . . but I came to realize that that wasn't something he'd need . . . that I wasn't something he'd ever need . . .
Nothing caught his eye . . . not even me, a girl who Tsunade-Hime loved . . . he sat in the corner—living in his own big world; and from my little one, I'd look at him and wish that he'd look back at me, too . . . and hours would go by like this, and he wouldn't look—wouldn't see—me for who I was—a girl who'd given him her heart. Strange, isn't it? Yes, very strange . . . but when you don't belong, you struggle to belong. Perhaps this was what it was, a fight to belong; and in his world, I wanted to belong, too, be something special in his world, like he was to others . . .
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And spring came, and I'd become too aware of the fact that I was seventeen, ripe for sex. Was it him—me—my dreams? I didn't know, but I thought of him often—too often; and I was a girl loved by Tsunade-Hime—all Medics—talk of the Village, 'cause I'd found a cure for the troubles that come with cold, with my mentor—something I was proud of; and everyone loved me—everyone but him . . . but I still fought with his heart and his cold ignorance of my being . . . hoped that, someday, he'd think of me, too . . . even a little . . .
On some days, he'd come to the meadow, beautiful like I'd never hope to be, and sit down under the tree; and Naruto would sit between us—a summer between spring and autumn . . . he kept us apart; and I'd listen to them and look at him, but he'd never look at me . . . it was then I'd noticed, with a fascination, that he was taller than us both . . . !
At night, I'd lie down in my room, not look at my parents' letters that lay scattered on my table (untouched, ink still heavy on the scrolls), eyes on the sky that was his eyes . . . and it got cold—so cold that it'd hurt my heart in ways I didn't think possible. Why didn't he look . . . ? Why didn't he speak . . . ? Why didn't he like . . . me . . . ? Was I really so dirty . . . ? Was I still the same merchant girl that he'd never like . . . love . . . ?
I'd toss and turn in my bed all night—I couldn't sleep like I could. Sleep was easy—it always had been; but he was a thief and he'd stolen my heart and he never gave it back; and then I'd close my eyes and dream of him . . . kissing me, exploring me, coming into . . . me. I couldn't have him—my dreams could; and a scent of Autumn would drip from his eyes—so real that that place would ache more and more till I'd be forced to touch it, weeping . . .
And boys came to me, hoping that I'd spread my thighs and let them in; but I'd made up my mind that I'd give myself up to him—only him—'cause he was who I loved. He was a boy; so even if he didn't love me, he wouldn't mind—wouldn't turn me away—would he? Oh, what a fool I'd been, 'cause I didn't know big words; and in the forest I'd confessed, tears in my eyes, and reached down and touched him where boys liked to be touched; but he—he didn't like it at all . . .
That was the first time I'd seen his temper—and it was terrifying. Pink appeared in his cheeks, and he narrowed his pretty eyes and hardened his mouth; and then he told me never to touch him again—not ever! I'd never heard him speak like that—in a rough voice; but he turned around and left, but not before his eyes threatened me—red as murders—like he wanted to take my life . . . and I sat there all alone, crying in the grass, more lonely than I'd ever felt in my life . . .
# # # # # #
Eighteen and hopeless in another Spring that was shorter than the last . . . a year had gone by like this, and I learned big words . . . for him; so I'd read the things he liked—poetry, stories, paintings—and mimicked the things in them that I'd never understand to catch his eye. Dreaming of him wasn't hard, but dreams are easy—and that was enough to hurt my heart.
He'd become a Chūnin two years before us, but he was put into Team-Seven led by the Jōnin Kakashi—so that he'd learn more. He stayed away from me, learned Raiton, and went home as soon as our little Missions were over. I'd go after him and watch (from the shadows) his brother standing by the Chūnin Academy's gates—white and dangerous and cold, he always terrified me . . . but not Sasuke, who'd smile like I'd never seen him smile; and unknowingly, I'd smile, too, 'cause he was too beautiful and 'cause I loved him so much . . . and I'd whisper, "farewell . . . " to him—the only way I knew how to love . . . him . . .
Hopelessly, I'd think . . . what would his lips taste like? They probably felt sweet—maybe a little bitter 'cause he liked Wakoucha—without pairing it with sweets—Naruto had told me. I'd believe silly things like that, hoping that he'd let me kiss him—kiss him hard on the lips—a kiss . . . a thing that'd make me happy . . .
And I'd send him secret missives with a fancy name—careful with my words, tender, as one painter had said . . . but he didn't read more than two . . . why was I unable to make even a little space in his heart? Was it so full that I had no place in it—at all? And this thought would hurt me in a way people's eyes never had—I was so little to him, so little that he didn't even care about hurting me . . . ?
Yet I'd gone to him again and again and again—he'd rejected me over and over and over again. I was a Medic who Tsunade-Hime loved, but to this boy, I was little . . . nothing . . . and after I'd grown tired of his coldness for so long, I'd given myself to my mentor; and it was the Spring that'd hurt me the most . . .
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Nineteen Autumns—nineteen whole Autumns . . . they came and they never went and they hurt Leaf's Springs and Summers . . . equally. The longer they stayed, the longer I'd dream of him. It was like my dreams had become his ghost's home—he haunted me while I was awake—and he didn't let me rest while I slept. Cruel—he was just cruel . . .
To the meadow, he came less and less, and I'd often find Naruto, sitting among the lilies, head down, crying his heart out 'cause he felt lonely; and I'd look away out at the river and weep in whispers—not for Naruto, but for me. He had everything—why did he want to take Sasuke for himself, too? Maybe it was Naruto that'd held us together—maybe it was always Naruto, and I'd only been a fool . . .
And I'd wanted to make something of myself with my mentor—maybe he could be the one who'd made me bigger than I was; but, like always, it was just not meant to be—he was killed in a skirmish, and I was alone again—alone and hopeful for a boy who didn't look, love, long . . . for me . . .
I'd embraced Kakashi . . . hoping—perhaps believing that that'd change Sasuke's heart, but it never did. Had I wished for his anger—a spark in his ego that all men had? And I wanted him to say something to me—anything—be angry if he wished, but he didn't care enough to hurt me like . . . like I mattered to his heart. His indifference broke my heart more than his anger . . .
And you can only make some time for yourself—not all time; but it wasn't as if I'd ever gotten a piece of him in my time—in me . . . and then he turned fifteen and went away into Anbu, and our worlds grew more apart than ever . . . and I was left to dream of him at nights . . . angry and hurting . . .
# # # # # #
Part III
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Winter—nineteen—cold . . . years I'd spent longing—for things . . . him . . . like always, it was like I wasn't meant to have—not him. The more I ran, the more he vanished . . . into the future I couldn't see—a tomorrow in his world that didn't welcome—not me—never me . . .
Was I only meant to chase, not have . . . ? It hurt me—he hurt me—Leaf hurt me. I hadn't come here to want—only want. I'd thought that, someday, I'd have the stars in the night, run away . . . far away; but what good was that far away that didn't have him . . . and me . . . ? My world wasn't complete, not without him—dreams of us against the world—things little girls dream of—things I'd dreamed of, too . . . but dreams are easier to proud Shinobis, not little merchants . . . so I treated him like a treasure I'd guard—in my heart until he would—could—should be mine—only mine . . .
So I kept waiting—waiting—and waiting—and kept sending him missives (this time with my name in old ink) . . . to which he never replied . . . not a drop to my name . . . but I'd still try to reach his heart, with the big words that I'd learned in books—words he liked—words I'd come to live with 'cause that's what he loved . . . even if I hardly knew what most meant . . .
In the hospice, I'd get my hands dirty, hold hearts, heal . . . but I didn't know what he liked—wanted . . . from me . . . things they never teach you in books; so I felt more alone than ever—like he'd killed me long before my time—and inside me, I'd begun hating . . .
# # # # # #
Twenty Autumns—heavier than nineteen Autumns—on my heart. So alone that I'd stopped going to the meadow 'cause the lilies reminded me of him—beautiful, sleepy, and cold . . . ignorant like him; and I'd not stepped foot in my house in so long—didn't want to see my parents, not when seeing them caused me shame . . .
And I'd run away into the woods on lonely nights and find myself among the lilies again—lilies that I loved and hated equally—an anger in me had taken root that wouldn't let go—'cause when you don't belong, anger is the only balm that soothes the heart . . .
It was this autumn that I saw him again, a feeling in me I can't explain—not even now. When he returned, he looked sad . . . angry. Like something inside him had broken—but what . . . ? I'd ask myself, but it wasn't like he'd ever tell . . . and I noticed that youth had changed his face—quite a bit—no longer a child—not a man—beautiful like in my dreams . . . he'd stolen my heart all over again . . . and I was helplessly in love . . .
So I went to him, stood in his shadow, looked into the eyes that ate up my world—greens in my eyes—springs in love; and he was taller now, but I liked him more this way, thought of the dreams in which I'd tip-toe, wrap my arms round his white neck, and kiss him full on the lips—something I'd always longed to do . . .
But he was colder now—angrier. I noticed that my confessions irritated him now—more than ever—his blood boiling in the eyes—and I didn't know what to do—how to make his heart mine—make him mine—why was this so hard . . . ? A merchant girl was always a merchant girl, after all . . .
# # # # # #
A tired Spring—twenty-one—short, warm, sweet—but his coldness had infected me that I saw no joy in anything. Days passed by, and I'd stopped caring . . . sick died in my arms, but I had no tears for my peace—not like before—and running after him had killed me piece by piece—in a way that hurt me so much . . .
When you're young, you want to steer the world with your own hands, but you're small—smaller than your own world—too small to fill up the dreams that haunt your childhood nights—and when he looked at me now, his red eyes crushed me—my peace—dignity—love . . . an Uchiha heir and a dirty merchant girl . . . ? What a silly thing to think . . . ? But the dreams were mine, so he could be, too . . . ? A thought I'd not given up—a thought I'd never given up . . .
So he stayed away, not seeing me; and I worked hard—very hard to gain a piece of his love . . . was it worth it . . . ? It was—he was—I'd keep telling myself, smiling, loving—not knowing how hard life can be when you only fight to make yourself into something you're not; but was I ever someone I'd want to keep . . . ? No—never—not ever!
Sasuke, you've come home early, I ask, smile, kiss him.
Yes, I've come home early—I'd stay with you today—we'd go to the meadow by the river, he says, smiles, kisses me . . .
# # # # # #
Twenty-two—a bolder winter—it was like you're dreaming someone else's dream, not yours—and what's childhood if not the other you—a forgotten you that you can never have . . . ? A you you don't want—a you you won't change—a you you can't see—not anymore . . .
And father—pa—had strayed far into old villages—to sell medicines. He always liked the snow—said it was white, pretty, pristine—like magic. He'd always been bold—careless, some would say . . . maybe it was true, but so what . . . ? Poor can't live—not with care, 'cause care is for the ones that sleep on full stomachs . . . in warm beds . . . heavy clothes . . . things I'd never known . . . not till Leaf began tormenting me . . .
An infection—a rare black-pin mould—and it wouldn't go away. No matter what I did, it wouldn't . . . leave . . . not him—not me—and I was back to seeing the shame in his old face every—single—day . . . and he'd grown old—so old and frail that I couldn't find the pa I loved in him—not anymore . . .
And I was lost, lonely, longing—for him—only him . . . and he was eighteen now—a youth awakening in him—and he mesmerized me . . . more than ever—like dreams mesmerized little girls—more and more . . .
I love you, he says, so beautiful and sweet, smiling at me—only at me.
I love you so much—you know? he says, like he's reassuring me that he loves me—only me.
I only love you—I want you to know, he says—sweetly—again, and I'm lost in his eyes—his reds bolder than my love—only my love . . .
And I lie down into the lilies and feel him—on me—in me . . . hiccupping . . . whispering . . . kissing . . . my world torn in two . . . bleeding . . . 'cause I'd saved myself for him—only him—and that should never change . . .
# # # # # #
Summer—twenty-three—old cloths—frayed woolen-dolls—warm barley-biscuits—that's all I knew—maybe it was good to only know this—not more . . .
A sweet thing you want, but can't have . . . tomorrows—how unfair . . . ? You don't know when you're young—no, it's like the younger you makes you . . . bitter . . . colder . . . angrier . . . and there's no cure—not in the paintings—not in words—not anywhere . . .
Tsunade-Hime loved me—a Medic—a good Medic—but I couldn't have his heart—I could never have his heart—I'd now realised that you can't have the stars you look at—no, they exist for you to dream, not have . . . but like all fools, I still tried harder and harder and harder . . . to have him . . . for a me I still didn't have . . .
Laudanum—shining—empty bottles—scattered about pa's room—and he'd yell at me—out of his mind—cough out red everywhere that I had to clean 'cause I didn't want ma to get infected, too . . . a dirty merchant to the end . . . ?
Oh, Sasuke, I want you—take me away—far away from here . . . a place where I can be happy—where I'd not be me—where I'd have you—and I'd keep you happy . . . I swear . . .
He looks at me, smiles, kisses me—I want you—I'd take you away—far away from here—a place where you'd be happy—where I'd have you—and I'd keep you happy . . . I swear . . . and I smile, cry, sit down among the lilies, looking at the darkness about the meadow . . .
# # # # # #
Winter—we were in the same Team—a Jōnin Squad—a place he didn't deserve 'cause he was much too talented. What had happened . . . to him . . . ? I could've been happy, but . . . his constant coldness . . . I couldn't bear . . .
Pa—dirty—dying . . . too slowly . . .
I want . . . it to be over . . .
Nothing . . .
No Kinjutsu . . . works . . .
What is this—this mould . . . ?
I'd have to sell my soul to save pa . . . a pa I'd run away from . . . why . . . I don't want to be a merchant anymore . . . ? Sasuke . . . ? I . . . you . . .
Sasuke, I love you—you love me, too? I ask, smile, kiss.
I love you—you love me, too? he asks, smiles, kisses.
I hear pa yelling—ma crying—and I cry, too . . .
# # # # # #
Twenty-four—Spring—so short.
Naruto—he's kind to me—loves me—in a way I wanted you to love me . . . I hate you . . .
I think of you—love you—want you . . . Sasuke, don't you want me, too . . . ? I ask, smile, kiss . . .
I think of you—love you—want you . . . don't you want me, too . . . ? he asks, smiles, kisses . . . but he never says my name . . .
I smell the vomit . . . metallic blood . . . puss . . . feel sick . . . run away . . . to the meadow again . . .
# # # # # #
Summer—twenty-five . . .
Alone . . .
Sick . . .
Old . . .
Dirty . . .
Not a merchant . . .
Loves . . . Tsunade-Hime . . . me . . . a Medic . . .
You—you love me, don't you—I love you . . . I say . . . cry . . .
He doesn't say—anything—lips move—don't hear anything—he doesn't cry—he smiles . . .
# # # # # #
Autumn—twenty-?
Itchy . . . hurts . . . sick . . . won't tell anyone . . . not a soul . . .
Old . . . dirty . . . merchant . . . not a merchant . . . I want . . . want . . . want . . .
I . . .
You . . .
Sasuke . . .
I—you—love you, Sasuke—smile, cry, plead . . .
He doesn't say—not a thing—lips don't move—he doesn't cry—he doesn't smile—he just . . . looks . . .
# # # # # #
Standing by the grave, she looked up at the moon from the scroll in her hand, mad scribbles she had created with a madder hand. It was done—over—but that was always meant to be his end: A dirty merchant in the dirt . . . she wanted to write, carve into the old stone, but it was not as if anyone would read the thoughts, inks that she had spilt in a haste to become bigger . . .
Then she went inside, threw the scroll, spotted by careless fingers, into the hearth, went out into the night—in whose fabric, stars winked . . . so many memories in a little time . . .
"Farewell, pa," she said, tear-less eyes, and turned away from him, for that was how it was meant to be . . .
# # # # # #
EN: It's canonical that Sasuke knew how to cover metal with Elemental and Non-Elemental chakra before Kakashi ever taught him anything, before anyone in Part I ever exhibited this ability. This is something that he knew before he joined the Academy for the Chūnin Rank.
There's a difference between Sakura's description of when she first met Sasuke in her Diary and in Chapter Seventy-Three: Lost, not Found:
"When she first met Sasuke, he was one and three years of age; and she, one and seven. In her, nerve-fraying desperation and underlying frenzy grew, one she had never experienced before, at the sight of him: he was the most beautiful and wild boy, with eyes like the blackest stones, with tongue like the sharpest kunais. He cared not whose heart he broke and wounded. He spoke of what was in his mind. He was honest. He was kind and unkind—strangest, littlest boy!"
This isn't a mistake; it's very deliberate. You'd just have to figure it out as to why that is.
Wakoucha is the term for black tea that was harvested in Japan about 150 years ago, with techniques predominately learnt from India. "Wa" refers to Japan and "koucha", red tea. It's a tea that has a muddy red colour, and, albeit its taste is very mild taste, it's typically paired with food and sweets.