Life of Much Shame
“Don’t get your hopes up.”
That was one of the earliest memories he had of her.
“He wasn’t anything special. Sorry if this stomps on your dreams, but I figure it's best you learn this right out the gate.”
The boy sat in the center of his shabby metal shelter as rain slammed into the roof, a rapid-fire of muffled noise, as it always had. He looked up at the exhausted woman as she, shakingly, stuffed more tobacco into her pipe and lit it. Taking a long, drawn-out drag, she blew the smoke into the air, away from the boy. In the past, she would show him a trick or two, a small smoke ring that flew through a bigger one, or other some such chicanery. But that was when she smiled at him. That isn’t to say she never did, nor was she entirely incapable. The woman, weary from age despite being no more than two decades old, was far too tired to put on such niceties, neither for herself nor her son.
She was quiet for a while longer. The boy, as usual, stared up at his mother in reverence. Despite her recent callousness, he never viewed her as any different than how she was when they lived outside the city. She was, at the least, a little more relaxed then. Now she had many more customers, many more bruises, and much less feeling throughout her body.
“You’d figure this out eventually, but I think it’s too cruel of me not to tell you while it still won’t hurt. He was a customer,” Another lengthy puff. “Not much more I can tell you.” The boy, at the age of five, had learned enough to intuit what she meant. She was right, of course. Though he was old enough to comprehend, he wasn’t quite old enough to understand. If she waited to tell him this when he was older, ten or fifteen, provided she lived that long, he would surely disdain both himself and her for allowing him to dream of something greater. To dream he was something more than a whore’s bastard.
“Hmmm? What did he look like? Well… You look a lot closer to him than me.” This was something he could tell by himself, as well. His mother had silver hair and skin just as pale. Her eyes were a deep red, which she would say was the only thing they had in common, and even then, they didn’t just yet. To his confusion, she would always tell him he had his father’s, and her mother’s eyes. “Well, to tell you the truth, I don’t see much of me in you at all. Don’t look at me like that. I meant on the outside.” He, of course, had not changed his expression the entire time they spoke. Likewise, she had not turned to look at him in quite some time. “Your hair is only a little lighter. His was jet black, I think. His eyes were just as dark. Creeped me out a little, honestly. Quite frankly, I was a little glad to see you had the eye color you do. It’s about the only gold I’ll ever see. The best part of coming home, I think.” A smile. Just a small one, and just as weary as her eyes, but the boy still cherished it all the same.
“His skin was a bit darker, but not by much. I’m not sure if you have me to thank for that or not. Not a doctor. If we ever get one, let’s ask him, ok? Anyway, his nose was pretty big, and his eyebrows were bushy. Guess you got those from me, too, now that I think about it. Maybe. You know they say your nose never stops growing so long as you live?” She would often go on unimportant, and equally short, tangents like this in the middle of any given topic. The boy, like many other things, already knew this wouldn’t be long and didn’t even bother interrupting her to get her back on track. Apart from that, he would feel bad if he did.
“Hm… I’ll be real, kid. You’re putting me in a real tough position. I don’t really remember him too well. He and his buddies came by the stew- you remember, back when we lived outside the city. They said they were here on some sort of official business. Not that any of us cared. They just dropped their coin and took their pick, like anyone else who stopped by. Whole thing was just as routine as anyone else.” She spoke with a detached sentiment, not feeling either nostalgia or disdain. Just recalling events as they happened. The boy, of course, had never been to the brothel himself. He had stayed in the small collection of shacks just out of sight. Oftentimes, he was alone without much to do. Sometimes, one of the women, if any were off duty, would stop by to keep an eye on him. Either way, it was the same. The girls were always nice enough to him, but he was too young for them to be anything but polite, familiar strangers. The only part of note, he remembers, is his mother only rarely left their home. According to her, the sun always hurt her skin too much, so she only wanted to be out if she could help it. “After that, they just packed up and went back on their merry way,” she continued. “Never saw hide nor hair of any of them again. I think… the only thing left I can remember,” She took a short pause as she compared them to any of the other customers that were similar enough to get them confused, doing her best to gather the correct information. “Is that they were from the Hidden Leaf.”
The next important memory he had of her, chronologically, was about one year after the last; the grueling walk between the city and the Land of Fire. For the first couple of kilometers, they walked together. Naturally, along the way, her legs gave out. The boy was impressed it took so long, considering the state her health was in. He had done his best to help her; removed his shirt to shade her from the sun, and carried her things to keep them from weighing her down. She made it kilometers out without even stumbling once.
“She must not have worked at all the last few days,” he thought. “Otherwise, this’d’ve happened a lot sooner.” His steps, now slowed by the weight of his mother on his back, and his sopping wet clothes from the unrelenting rain. “We must be getting close to the edge. It’s letting up a little.” This was, however, no more than positive thinking. The rain was exactly the same, and they were still about 36 kilometers from the border. Hunched over with the added weight on his back, his feet sank into the mud, and his spine felt aged beyond his mother’s. He made it 6 more kilometers like this, before collapsing himself. At first, he had the same thoughts a child may have weeding a garden or trimming the lawn. “I don’t want to be here,” “I shouldn’t have to do this,” “Why can’t she do this herself,”; after less than the first mile with his newfound burden, he adapted to having no thoughts at all. After all, if he were to think about how unfair this was, he would be tempted to give out before he absolutely had to. If he could just reach the point where his body gave up before he did, he wouldn’t mind.
When he did reach that point, the rain still drumming down his back, he couldn’t help but be disappointed. He thought he could be proud of himself if he at least reached this far if he pushed himself past what his mind thought he could do, and let his body decide. But instead, all he found was disappointment. The same disappointment he would have felt if he had given up early. The same a grade-schooler may feel after not doing their best and scoring a little lower than usual, but not too low to be concerning.
So, unsatisfied with the result, he began thinking again. Like always, his mother’s propensity to get sidetracked would kick in, even in such dire circumstances. He imagined a scenario in which he was so strong in resolve, that even though he could not walk, he dragged his mother and himself by his fingernails all the way to the forest that awaited them. So naturally, he willed his arms to move. But they were so tired and weak, they did no such thing. At best, they perhaps changed positioning by an inch or so. Maybe a centimeter.
“This sucks…,” he thought. “I wanted my last thoughts to at least be satisfied.” He, at least, could not be too hard on himself for his hopelessness, the realization of which almost lightening his heart. He was kilometers away from the nearest city. Even still, as his pessimism overtook his rational thoughts, he tried and tried to force his body to keep moving. After all, he knew she was doing this for him. She so rarely did things just for him, that anything was all the more special. His thoughts drifted back to when she brought home some street food one night. It wasn’t particularly good, nor was it bad. It was simply her seeing it and thinking of him, and then buying it, was enough to hold that in his memory forever. He didn’t even want to eat it. It felt like something to be saved for a special occasion, like a fine champagne. Of course, it eventually expired in their fridge, and she tossed it away without a second thought. To the boy, however, this was a travesty to never be forgotten. It wasn’t as if he forgot. It was more like such an occasion worthy of it simply never arose in time. From that point on, he would always think of the kindness the woman showed in buying the food, the charity of thinking no less of him for letting it go to waste, and the guilt of being so foolish as to let it happen. At least, that’s what it felt like to him.
A drop of rain landed directly in the one ear he had facing upwards, the other sunk firmly in the mud, shocking him out of his daydreaming. His mother stirred but still lacked the strength to move. The boy felt a little upset with himself for being frustrated with her. It wasn’t as if she could do anything about it, and it wouldn’t help him now. But all the same, he felt his mother, at least, should always be strong enough to protect him. In fact, although he regretted the thought as soon as it formed, he felt that she should be willing to help him at her own expense, no matter what that may be. But of course, he knew she had nothing to give. There was nobody around, and even if they could still drag themselves, there was nowhere around for shelter to crawl to. No trees. No caves. Just muddy plains, hills, and shallow rivers.
The pair stayed like that for hours, before the boy’s consciousness succumbed to his exhaustion. His eyes closed, slowly, and the last thing he heard was some quiet rumbling and clanking.
When he woke up, he felt hard wood beneath him. All around him jostled crates and jars, and he noticed how cold he was- which means he was out of the rain- and something warm and heavy on top of him. Opening his eyes, he saw himself in a carriage, surrounded by cargo. To his left, his mother sat beside him.
“Oh, you’re awake. Good.” The woman spoke in a very cold manner but had no intention of it coming off this way. She simply lacked any energy to perform any differently. The boy, of course, knew this very well, having seen her like this many times before, so it didn’t even register. To him, it would have been exactly the same as being welcomed home after a long day of school. “You better count your lucky stars. Only thing else I could get that stingy bastard to give up was a blanket or a pipe, and you looked worse for wares than I did. Figured you’d deserve it after carrying me for so long. So I thought I can just get a new pipe in the city.” The boy, feeling a sense of immense gratitude, listened carefully and nodded his head. Wordlessly and thoughtlessly, he resolved to cherish the simple wool quilt forever. He also, in an instant, gained an understanding of what happened. The rumbling he heard must have been a carriage, and his mother must have traded the only thing she could for a ride, and the only thing keeping him warm.
Clutching the blanket tightly, the boy muttered a quiet thanks. Turning away again, the woman thought nothing of it. She simply did what she felt necessary- not that this was some great act of generosity or sacrifice. Despite the change in their life, this day was the same as any other, it seemed to her. In realizing this, the boy was apathetic in that it changed nothing of how he felt towards the shaggy patch of cloth. He gripped it tightly as his clothes dried, and the carriage ride silently continued. He thought for a moment to check the crates beside him for anything to pilfer, but quickly realized the risk was not worth the reward. If they were to be thrown out yet again, there would surely not be another untimely rescue. Instead, he sat there with his arms beside him and waited out the rest of the journey.
After a time, and a long one at that, the rain cleared, and the silence that caused the weather to echo so loud gave prosper to a new sound- one the boy found himself a little surprised he would actually manage to hear it. Birds chirping. Singing to each other. There was no such thing in Amegakure, nor any synonym to be found. Of course, he knew of them, but the only birds were rare, and one could never hear them sing so vibrantly over the rain hitting the heavy iron roofs. His thoughts were interrupted, and he very briefly lost his innocent wonder, as he believed the rain had returned- only for him to discover the sound he expected to be returning downpour was simply a once occurring resonance- it was simply an acorn hitting the carriage’s top. The farther into the forest they went, the more the new cacophony presented itself. Cicadas cried, the wind blew through the massive treetops, and flies buzzed in through the carriage’s openings, all of which inspired a natural curiosity in almost anyone of that age. The boy did not want to bother his mother, however, and resolved to ask some gramps or an old lady in wherever their destination was. Old people always seemed to love to explain simple things to young people, he thought.
After three more days and two nights of traveling, only having stopped to rest three times, they arrived at a checking point in front of a massive gate, with walls that seemed to stretch well beyond what the boy could see. Within seconds, a gruff man’s voice began conversing with the carriage driver. The boy tried peeking through the carriage to see who was speaking, but his mother shoved his head down, pushing him and herself, as quietly as they could into an empty crate the man had left for her as part of their deal. Placed as inconspicuously as possible, she placed the lid back on as she crammed herself next to her son.
The two sat in silence as they heard men climb aboard around him. The boy felt nothing as he silently waited, but the woman, for once in a very long time, felt her heart race. Sweat rolled down her chin, onto the face of her son below, who simply let it slowly trickle off his cheek and into his hand. The woman felt her throat catch as crates and pots around them were kicked open, her heart pumping faster than it ever had since her very first time working. This was a sensation she had thought long since lost to her, and despite the danger she knew they were in, she couldn’t help but smile at the realization that she was not quite so numb as she believed, and grew grateful to the rush of new emotion that allowed her to realize just how apathetic she had felt for so long.
One by one, seemingly at random, they heard crates around them crack open, and the men crassly rummaged through their continents. When they heard stomping from right next to them, the two held their breath in unison- and did their best not to let out a sigh of relief when the crate next to them was knocked open, instead. Just after, a series of hops could be heard, and then two knocks on the side of the carriage’s frame- signaling the driver to continue forward into the city. Maybe it was the recent reemergence of her heart, but the woman felt for the first time in a very long time the slightest glimmer of hope.
The carriage driver rolled through the massive gate, and the boy calmed once more. Like his mother, he was not used to such intense emotion any longer- although it was more an admittedly much different reason. When the wheels finally came to a stop, the driver, after cautiously checking for anyone who may be spying on him, something not out of place in the hidden leaf, and slowly moved to uncover the crate that had been left empty for his passengers. It was time for them to leave- his end of the bargain had been finished.
It wasn’t long before the woman found work. In her profession, it never is. However, the boy noticed something new. She was a lot more discerning in her customer base than usual. Not that she would mind if the patron was ugly or sloven, or particularly hygienic. It was more so that she would analyze their features, not to judge their beauty, but to discern any possibility of recognition. It did not take him long at all to deduce why that may be. It was the same reason, he knew, that was the true sole motivator for immigrating, and its biggest justification for staying put for so long. What he didn’t know was why this compelled her so. Not yet.
The next memory was not very long after this. Running down the street kicking a ball his mother patched together, he lamented how much space he had now, and how little his peers wanted to share it with him. This was his first lesson in the cruelty of children, but it would certainly not be the last in the years that followed. As he continued down the street, he was shoved to the ground with enough sudden force that his ball went spiraling onto a shop roof from a misplaced kick. He panicked, he couldn’t allow the gesture of effort for not but his entertainment to be lost so easily, but when his eyes went to track the lost toy, he instead found, and was then locked into, the gaze of a frightening man with black hair and dark eyes peering down upon him more scrutinizing than anyone he had ever met. His eyebrows were bushy and his nose was large, and his hair was pulled back into a loose topknot that sagged limply to the side. Behind him were two men and a woman with similar features, and identical stares. It wasn’t until one of the men from behind spoke up was the silence broken.
“Watch where you’re going, boy.” Was all he said.
The others began to move on, intent to forget something unimportant, but the man the boy ran into stood firmly planted. He looked the boy up and down, analyzing every tiny detail. Not once did the man blink as his view took in every inch and every feature the boy had, and all the boy could do was squirm in discomfort. After what felt like an eternity, the man left to join his compatriots, but spoke as he walked away:
“Be more careful from now on.”
The boy watched as they trotted away, shivered from the gross feeling in his gut, and dusted himself off. He thought to himself how he felt he needed the firm embrace of someone who cared about him deeply. Seeing as such a figure capable was absent, he settled on a limp one from his mother. Not forgetting the ball, he did his best to perform the acrobatics necessary to climb the roof and retrieve it. Recently, he had noticed an innate talent in such athletics. The boy supposed Amegakure never provided him an environment in which to discover such a skillset, to begin with. He was far too young to begin their ninja training, and the only buildings in which one may climb were far too dangerous to attempt such a thing, in fear of falling to his death. While lost in thought, the boy could have sworn, if just for a moment, he stood at a 90-degree angle on one of the support beams that held up the awning. Dismissing the idea, he continued his ascent and rescued the ball, cradling it for a moment- a habit he had developed for any inane object he held dear.
Following that, the boy decided to return to his mother. These days, she seemed less tired, and she always smiled, now, when he came back to her. Contrasting this, however, she was much weaker, physically. She would often need his help carrying even light objects. He would usually insist on seeing a doctor, but she would refuse, stating they still don’t have the money to waste. Sick of it, he decided that he would start using his ability to go unnoticed to pickpocket around the city. It wasn’t as if he believed himself a burden, or that he had anything he needed to pay back for. He just wanted to make a nice gesture.
He arrived to find the group from earlier had found her first. Standing in their doorway, he saw the group with a kunai to her throat. The ball rolled to the side after dropping to his feet, as the woman with black hair grabbed him, preventing him from running to his mother’s aid. He did not kick, nor did he scream, but his panic was indescribable, only awarded to someone wise beyond his age with the ability to understand exactly what was going to happen. He knew there was no changing their minds. He knew there was no false grasp on the situation, that they would turn around all of a sudden and explain something else was going on. But what he didn’t know was why. Why would these ninjas go out of their way to murder a simple prostitute? Did they know they were illegal refugees? Was that punishable by death in the Hidden Leaf? Why? For what purpose? He ran through every possibility he could think of, and with his limited knowledge, every one of them sounded so petty.
Finally, the man spoke. The same one who the boy seemingly drew the intense ire of earlier that day.
“I’m sorry, Yaeko. I suppose this is my fault, in the end. I shouldn’t have said all that I did.” He spoke. Despite his remorseful words, his expression remained just as dull as the woman whom he held by the hair. This was the first time the boy had
heard his mother’s name. This man knew his mother’s name.
“…” Yaeko silently stared at the ground, eyes dead. She couldn’t help but chastise herself for being foolish enough to believe she could have escaped the life she had been thrust into. She had believed for some time now that her heart could beat once more, and that maybe she could even find some manner of pride in herself. For her entire life, she had been surviving. For once, she had been living. And now, she was most assuredly dying.
“I know you bear no hatred to me. Not even ill will. You can’t even bring yourself to curse me, curse the Uchiha, not even the knife at your throat. You have nothing in your heart for such a thing. Hatred has long since left you. After all, someone who feels no pain can feel no hate, either. Which saddens me most of all.” The man hadn’t moved in the slightest. He stood firm, his hand steady. “If you could only spit on me, tear at me with your fingernails, nash at me with your teeth, I could have, perhaps, mourned this decision and lived knowing I have done my duty and tied up the loose ends I should not have woven, to begin with. Instead, I end the mind of a being who has never even received the chance to know what they are losing. And they know this. And they feel not but apathy. I am sorry, Yaeko. Please… find it in your heart… no, find your heart… and hate me. Despise me. If you could only do that…”
The man’s pleas came from a face unmoving. There was not a single emotion the boy could read, and for the first time in his life, he felt fear. He always believed he could tell exactly what those around him thought or felt. But not this man. And he hated it. For his mother, he hated. But not the man who will surely kill her. He hated himself. And he felt pain towards himself. But the man cared little. Or maybe he did. The apathy portrayed on his face was betrayed by his words and his hesitation to kill the whore he hired 6 and a half years ago.
“…” Yaeko looked up, and the man, for a moment, had hope she would answer his prayers and revile him. But instead, she looked upon her son, and her eyes rested.
“This boy, Yaeko. Do you know him? I encountered him earlier, and the look he gave me reminded me immediately of you. I had hoped, when I saw him, that my suspicion may be wrong. That you had stayed where I met you, and I would never be given the chance to correct my mistake. But I had to find out. I owe it to my clan far more than I owe much of anything to you. And there you were. It only took a moment. It only took the time required for this boy to find his way here. Why is that, Yaeko? Why did he make his way here, and why was it so quick? Is he your blood? Did your suffering produce even more burden upon your body? Although suffering is the wrong word. You can not feel, and so you cannot suffer.”
Yaeko continued to drift in thought. She wanted to call him some self-righteous moron. She wanted to say she refused. She hated to admit it, but he was right. No. She didn’t hate to admit anything. She simply knew this was true. She simply had an urge to deny this, and nothing more. She knew, as well, that this man was incapable of self-righteousness. She knew he believed what he spoke with all of his soul, and that he took no pleasure from doing so. But looking upon her son, she briefly remembered the times when she could be a different woman. She never allowed herself to get too close to him. Despite how little he looked like his father, he was always a constant reminder of him, and the young age she gave birth. She never blamed the boy, not out of any loving instinct as a mother, but because there was no logical reason to. Anything but the discomfort he brought was extra, unnecessary, and reduceable. She did not hate him because she could not. She did not leave him because she felt no reason to. But eventually, after a long while… she did start to feel something around him. She was tired. She was exhausted. That was the same. But she also, over time found herself becoming… anxious. Earnest. Eager. All slight, all irregular, all impermanent. They came and went, and never stayed for long. Even still, they were proof, to her, that she could still feel anything at all. And so she decided she would emulate as much love for this boy as she could. And so she decided she would lie to herself, and maybe even deceive herself to believe she really did love the boy. She knew this.
And she knew she had succeeded.
“Hm? That brat? Nah, not mine. He just lives here. Used him to get in, and let him crash here, too. That’s all.” Responding to the man, as she, for the first time since she was born, smiled autonomously- a true smile.
“Oh, I see. How very unlike you. If that is all… if you refuse to grant me this wish, I cannot blame you. Even now, I hope you do so out of spite… but I know this is not the case. Farewell, Yaeko. I cannot say I loved you, as you deserve more than the false comforts of a customer in passion. I cannot say I pity you, as you deserve more than the empty platitudes of your murderer. But even then, perhaps you do not consider this a murder. You do not consider yourself human, and therefore, to you, I am not guilty of any crime if you were to die by my hand. I suppose what I feel towards you… may very well be indescribable. Goodbye.”
Yaeko never took her eyes off of her son, and before the knife was drawn across her throat, she looked the boy in the eye and spoke for the last time.
“Thanks for your business, Kirei. And thank you for your company… Ijei.”
The boy watched in silence as the woman’s neck opened before his eyes, and her body fell truly lifeless to the ground. He knew what she did. He understood what had happened. She had lied to reduce the chance of her son being next in line to die. One last time, she went out of her way to do something for him. One last time, she made a gesture with only his heart in mind. And for the first time since he had known his mother, she had made him cry. Without a sound, Ijei’s arms fell limp around his waist, and his mouth hung open as if he lost the motor function to close it. The woman holding him let him go, and the group all quickly vanished from the room. He didn’t even have time to perceive their movements. But it didn’t matter to him. He stepped forward. One foot after another, until he stood directly before the corpse of Yaeko.
She had died with her eyes open, and now Ijei stared into them, expecting any moment for them to blink, flutter, or even close one last time. Instead, she unceremoniously lay there, all that was once her gone from the world. Ijei fell to his knees and curled up next to his mother. He clutched his arm around her. He moved her arm around him. He pressed himself into her bosom and tried to force himself to grasp any last dredges of comfort. None sprang forth.
In his agony, he clutched his eyes, which now burned and singed, but he did not care. The pain of what happened around him was now far greater than what happened to him. He felt tears run down his cheek, warmer than before. When they hit his mother’s chest, they stained one of the last unsullied parts of her robe red. In that moment, he had believed himself so covered in her blood that it stained his very tears. This was not the case. And Kirei knew this.
Stepping out from the shadows, the man who killed Ijei’s mother walked towards him.
“Forgive me. I knew she was lying, but I needed to stay behind to confirm… I needed to see if you were mine, and if you had possessed the kekkei genkai of our clan… no, it is no clan of yours. You are unburdened by such a tie.”
Ijei looked up at the man once more. Just as before, the man was unreadable and eternally scrutinizing. The boy felt… not hatred for the man, where he would have expected it. In fact, he felt nothing but a strong urge to stay away from him. Feeling disgust at his inability to despise the man who killed his mother, his self-loathing only grew.
“Ijei… that’s what she said, correct? I am… no. Do not fear for your life. Whether I am responsible for ending yours as well is a matter of debate, but that is irrelevant. I am not so heartless as to kill my own son. I can tell from looking into your eyes… you have no hatred towards me, either. But not because you cannot feel the pain Yaeko lacked. You are different. Unique.” Kirei got down onto one knee and leaned over to Ijei, who backed away slightly, but not enough to have put any discernable distance between them. In truth, the discomfort he felt was not even enough to flinch at Kirei’s touch. Ijei almost bit through his tongue upon the realization he feared the man’s disapproval more than he did his actions. Another sin to sear into his soul and curse himself for eternity over.
“Would you like to know why I had to kill her?” Kirei asked, bluntly. Ijei felt his disgust rise as he simply nodded his head, tears of water and blood still flowing in equal measure. “Years ago, I, and a group of other Ninja from the Hidden Leaf, were sent to the Land Hidden In The Rain in a reconnaissance mission. I am not at any liberty to discuss details now, nor was I when I divulged this to your mother. That, and in a drunken state, my identity. The name I gave the brothel was an alias. The name I gave her, Uchiha Kirei, was the real one. I had revealed why we were here, where we were from, and even much of my personal abilities. After I had slept with her, I fell asleep in her arms. Yaeko, in my foolishness, reached inside my bag and stole a classified scroll, replaced it with one of equal weight, and sealed my bag once more. We were already on our return when we stopped, and so I did not look any closer at my luggage until we had already arrived home. By the time I realized my mistake, it was too late. Your mother had taken that scroll and sold it to the government of Amegakure for money and the promise of a roof over her head when she eventually moved there. The fact that she is here, now, showcases an incredible bravery and drive so unlike her it caused me to doubt my own faculties. If Amegakure’s ninja caught her leaving the border, they would have surely executed her, and you, on the spot. It is nothing short of awe-inspiring she arrived here, and it is why I now believe in Fate, as nothing short of a destined event could have gotten her here as safely as she happened to have arrived.”
Ijei listened to the man talk and absorbed every iota of information. With every word, he felt a disdain for the man fester inside him, but not a loathing, nor any anger. It was not for his actions or his decisions. It was simply because of the way this man spoke, his mannerisms, his body language- it was all so foreign and completely impossible to understand. He wished to distance himself as soon as possible but found himself incapable of cutting his father’s words short. He silently thanked his mother for not allowing him to get his hopes up when he was younger.
“Listen to me.” Kirei continued. “I cannot allow you to live with the other Uchiha. You are not part of the clan, despite your blood relation to me, and it would be unwise to allow you to join, as Yaeko’s history would make you a target to any who knew it. I, at the very least, cannot be so careless with your life. So, Ijei, I will tell you what I shall do.” Kirei grasped his son by the shoulders. “I am going to expend a small fraction of the clan’s wealth to provide for you an apartment and essentials. This money will be delivered to you in slips every month and should be absolutely untraceable. The very day you turn six years of age, I am going to have you enrolled in the shinobi academy, here in Konohagakure. From there, you will live your life detached from the clan, and detached from your history. If you ever wish to see me, you may seek me out, but otherwise, I will never come to you. It is far too dangerous, that way. If you want to live as long as possible, you must never tell anyone you are of Uchiha blood. Never show anyone you Sharingan, now that you have awakened it, and never use it unless absolutely necessary. Do you understand?”
Kirei looked directly into Ijei’s soul as he spoke, and the boy felt his gaze penetrate his desire to refuse the man. He felt his mouth open to respond, but it shut almost immediately, and his hands clenched into a fist as he silently nodded his head.
“Oh, I see… you seem to be in shock. You do not yet comprehend the vile nature of your father. Ijei, I will not lie to you to strike fear in your heart, I will not tell you that you are of accursed blood, but you must hear this from my mouth, if from any; Kirei Uchiha is a man whom you must grow to despise. If you cannot now, then you must simply do so later. I am one whose soul was born lacking what makes one human, and through no great effort of mine to change this, inhuman I have remained. There is no urge, for me, to change this- and yet I understand that my continued presence fouls the world I inhabit. I know this, yet feel no desire to leave it. Even still, I see the reason in which the end of all that I am is of great benefit, and so I cannot argue one’s desire to do so themselves.” Kirei got closer and closer to his son’s face. “When you come of age, Ijei, when you come to despise me so much you lash out at the mention of my name, when you come to understand the nature of who I am and the atrocities alone you will have pieced together from Yaeko and I… then you may come… to kill me.”
With that, the man rose once more, towering over the boy, and disappeared into the newly set night.
Five in a half years later, at the age of twelve, Adachihara Ijei sat up in bed and thought about the mother who was killed before him, and, the father who killed her, and was subsequently killed before he was ever able to, himself.
He looked outside of his window and decided it would be best to stop dwelling on the past. He needed sleep. After all, he would be taking his graduation exam tomorrow.
As he drifted to sleep, he thought of the squad he could be assigned to, who he hoped would join him and who wouldn’t, and which Jonin he would have to watch his back. There was no anxiety or worry about how the exam might go, because he knew exactly how it would; in fact, to him, the passing grade had arrived- it was just taking its time getting here.