Vicious

The tall, silent swordsman breathed with a certain discomfort against the back side of his tightly-wrapped, white bandages. The cloth hugged firm against his lower face, and with each exhalation through the small part in his lips; the warm breath swirled and lingered behind the material. Blood-stained now, was the once white-cloth, leaving the bandages looking more of a dull orange hue than white. The smell had changed as well, from what was once a fresh-cotton like aroma, to a now deathly, festering, gangrenous rotting scent.
It smelled, rather delicious.
But at the same time kept the Missing-Ninja on the verge of vomiting profusely against the material.
Perhaps the only thing that encouraged a stabilization of the bile to come; was the fact that it would have no where to go in a sudden rush outward, and would back splash violently toward the mouth in which it had exited.

Zabuza drew in a long inhale through his equally covered nostrils as he lowered a red marker to dark paper, and wrote;


"Desolate stretch of road
Separates me from worlds unknown
Desperate to drag these bones
From the festering stench of home
Solitude soothes my mind
From the reminders then, and the remainders of now.

Making stagnant strides
Against the dragging tides

Distance makes the heart grow fonder,
but sometimes when you're near,
my mind starts to wander."



The Jounin lowered the market to the edge of the dark paper slowly, his eyes closing and his mind filling with images.
They were the same as always, and disgustingly realistic.
Zabuza would continue to fight back to urge to puke for hours to come; as these haunting reminders filled the back sides of his closed eye lids.
His mind was a trap for horrors and a breeding ground for sorrow.
When the two mixed, it left the tall swordsman from the Mist; feeling empty, hollow, and drained.

Haku...

A young, long lost apprentice of Zabuza. But the memory remained, and the name; echoing on for eternity within the restless mind of the tortured Shinobi.
Water Country was a perfect place for depression. The constant storm clouds, and gray skies allowed for no hope of warmth or sunlight to wash over your skin and cleanse your soul of demons.
The bone-chilling, mist filled air provided for the sense that the ghosts of a thousand dead villagers from the Bloody Mist were all around you, constantly moaning in silent shrieks for an answer on how to escape their terrible purgatory and find some rest at last.

There was no rest to be had. Not for them,

...and not for me, sighed the swordsman internally.

Somethings were better left unsaid; but in times like these, when he was hunted day and night by vicious killers lurking in the fog, Zabuza wished his thoughts weren't the only sound he heard.
He longed to hear the voice of some one else, any one else. He longed to hear the sweet tone of his young partner.
But he knew, sadly; that he never would.. again.

Zabuza ground his oral tools together in a demonstration of agony, as he twisted his torso to the right slightly; placing his small journal and red marker back into the pouch from which they came.
The strain on his abdominal muscles reminded the Jounin of something else from his past now. And not to his surprise, it involved more violence, and hatred.
The memory was a sour one, and Zabuza had tried to push it and keep it barred from his mind. This was quite difficult however, for the injury on the left side of the swordsman's gut, provided a stinging, burning refresher; that he had indeed been gashed, and that the gash had not healed.

It had been quite a while since the fight with the young boy in the Arena, and Zabuza began to wonder if the strange Shadows that accompanied his foe's techniques and attacks; had something to do with his wound's stubborn will to remain. The hole in his gut had not only refused to heal up, but due to the past days of constant fighting and fleeing from pursuing ANBU the wound had grown even bigger, and the dry surrounding skin had cracked and split, allowing the wound to become infected, and begin to stink.
Momochi blamed the people he had encountered in days of late. Their constant hostility to the simple, 'passing through' Jounin; had caused him much unrest, and he considered himself lucky not to have been injured again in his latest battles.
His mind recalled images of the faces he had encountered. All so young, all so inexperienced.
He remembered the young boy by the waterfall, whom had escaped Zabuza with only a poison dart in his shoulder to show for his time spent in the company of a Missing-Nin.
He remembered the young man he had bumped into while hiding out within the Hidden Mist Village itself; with his the flowing white hair and robes. He had possessed an incredible ability to exert spikes and other projectile weapons from his body and use them to attack and defend himself.
He remembered the arrogant teenager he had tried to help in the woodlands on the outskirts of the village; upon making what he was sure would be his final leave from the Village Hidden in the Mist, the village he despised.
The boy in the forest had a cold look in his eyes that said he was too good for the world, let alone Momochi, Zabuza. Almost invisible, razor-sharp strands of hair were controlled and manipulated by this teen and had even been used to bind Zabuza's limbs and render him immobile at one point in their fight.

All these memories.
All this pain.
Zabuza, was tired.


WC: 923

*Note - The 'journal-entry' of Zabuza was not counted in the Word Count for this post.
The lyrics belong to their respective source and were used by a fan, giving praise and showing admiration for the work.