Mementos of the Past [closed]

[EITO]

Pant, thud, pant, thud..

The dull noise of training filled the empty training hall, a percussion of sharp breaths breaking up the monotony of its rhythmic drumming.

"HAH," thud, pant, "HAH", thud, pant."

A kiai betrayed the source of the noise, what was once background noise became something birthed of sentience, a deliberate attempt to intimidate a crowd; or man, not present to hear it.

"Hyaaaaaaaaaah!"

A crescendo, punctuated with an even louder thud, then followed by a crash and low, blunt bouncing. A young man stood alone in the dojo, his skin glistened with sweat and his knuckles and shins bloodied with prior efforts. This was what he called structure, routine, perhaps even life. Pressing his back to the paper thin walls of the abandoned dojo, youthful strength and exuberance gave way to fast, shallow breaths and frustrated attempts at controlling them. Golden eyes took in the sight of his handiwork, the blood that began to pool beneath his hands offering visual evidence of his training. Driven by an insane work ethic, he attempted to stand once more but fell back onto his behind, a frustrated grunt following soon after.

"Weak.. I'll always be weak."

As if forgetting the previous hour of intense training, the young man lamented his failure to move, his eyes blanketed by a surface of salty tears that built up before trailing down his face, the rivets of the scar on his face slowing their descent before they fell to his punished hands. "Shit," he complained, raising his hand to the scar on his face, which he traced in a longing fashion. ".. thought you'd be good for something other than bad memories." Bitter about the memories that came flashing back into his mind, Hidana clenched his fist and then slammed it back into the wall behind him, a portion of the bloodied mitt ripping through the weak material.

".. your own son .."

 

[EITO]

---

"SLOW!" father screamed, his gigantic hand wrapping around my comparably tiny skull, palm flattening my face. I could only whine in protest before he threw me back, my 10 year old frame slamming against the dojo wall behind me. Immature as I was, I knew that this was not how a father should treat his child, least of all one that worshiped him like a deity. Rising to my feet, I readjusted my gi and took a proper stance, mimicking how my father held himself; wide footed, confident with my left arm outstretched, a fools errand as I did not share the ambidexterity of my father, but I was determined to impress him. "Why are you leading with your weak hand?" his gruff voice sounded out, his deliberate and powerful steps slapping fleshy whaps into the air, each making my heart jump. I was silent, I knew this was not a question that required a verbal response, only an adjustment of my stance. Displaying proper form, he continued without words, bronze hues watching for any give to his actions but, even with his precursor of "DEFEND!" I could not move in time, my thin arms only reaching the center of my red chest as his palm connected with my abdomen, rocketing my through the wall of the dojo and across the floor until my limp pile of flesh rested against the far wall of the next space. No breath in my lungs, I hastily attempted to fill my chest with precious oxygen but was interrupted by the torrent of vomit that sputtered out of my throat, staining the snow white gi I previously wore with such pride.


".. a sniveling pup is not fit to be called my son."

---

The previous few streaks of tears had turned into a full torrent of anguish, the boy's face red and twisted into a look of absolute misery as he looked at the still torn wall of the dojo, a house fit to contain his most painful memories of the past. With noises closer to that of a child, Hidana languished in his sadness by himself, the scars on his face paling in comparison to that emotional scarring he had been inflicted with by his father. What started as a single memory let slip more memories of his childhood, starting with the cause of his scar that he even now wears with shame.

[EITO]

---

"Use your voice, pup." father spoke, the punch that had connected with his abdomen dealing little to no damage to his flesh. "Your strikes will not harm me with physicality alone." I was twelve, but the reality of my age and capabilities were of less importance to father than my biological connection to him. "You might be my flesh and blood but make no mistake, you're no son of mine." Was a speech he was fond of telling me, often after beating me to a pulp with nary a bead of sweat on his skin. My father was a cruel tutor, never giving me any sense of progress or validation, often times my sole reward was him hefting my beaten, unconscious body back home, but even this wasn't guaranteed. Mother stopped asking after the dozenth session, her expressions of sadness and worry turning blank as the years went by. I knew better than to talk to her about my problems, ".. your shame need only affect one of your parents, leave your mother alone." he'd say, often with a cup of sake in his hand. Yet today I was determined, more than ever, to get at least recognition of my growth. Posturing up, little doubt in my stance, I began making my way towards father, his eyes as complacent and uncaring as ever. Rushing in, he did not even move, far too used to defending against my strikes at the last second. Bare feet pushed off of the wooden floor and my left arm was allowed to slip from its billowy sleeve, pulling my sectioned gi off in one swift motion. Thinking it simply another failure on my part, the motion of the gi flying in front of me was ignored, foolishly, by my father. What he didn't know was I had devised a plan to gain his respect, I'd use the "battle sense" he had told me I lacked in the past.

CRACK!

My foot connected with his face and I remained suspended in the air for a second, time slowing to a crawl around me. I was elated.. but then, to my terror, I saw a red splotch spread over my gi. Before I could land on my feet to celebrate or apologize, my father's gigantic paw had wrapped itself over my face. Eyes wide, I took a sharp breath as he charged forward, my gi sliding off his face to reveal the bloodied, broken nose I had just connected with. In his eyes, I saw no humanity, only pure, unbridled rage. The spark of blue in them let me know he was in a trance, but I had never seen it before, even with my constant string of disappointments that proceeded this.

FOOL!

Slamming my frozen body into the ground, I screamed in pain as two of my ribs shattered, the momentary break from punishment being cut short as father's palm connected with bruised flesh, pinning me to the most structurally sound wall of the dojo. Held up only by instinct, my teary eyes could only vaguely make out what was approaching, but my body did not respond even as his fists pounded into my gut, the first strike drawing vomit while the second, third and forth drew growing spouts of blood, snot and tears. Falling forward, arms hanging dead at my sides, my father gripped my thin brown locks with his powerful digits and then stood me up one last time, his elbows crossing at the bridge of my nose, cracking the cartilage and splashing a mist of blood into the air. I was no longer conscious and I imagine must have simply fell to the floor, truthfully father might have beaten me more but memories of further punishment elude me. My last memories of the encounter was the initial shock of waking in a pool of blood and a sharp sensation of pain on my face, I was without words and energy but still managed to drag myself to a nearby pool of water, where I saw the deep, gory cuts that now adorned my face. Needless to say, I cried for hours.

---

His tears stopped, wet face now blank and emotionless, but internally Hidana only lamented the fact that he couldn't control when these memories came back. Rising to his feet, what was once the meek mewling of a kitten was replaced by the chorus of strength that filled the halls prior.

Thud, pant, thud, pant.

"The day you cry in public is the day I end your life, child. The name you're given isn't yours to tarnish."

- Shinirei Hidana Senior.

[EITO]

---

".. Hidana!"

Mother's voice cried as I slid open the door to our home pathetically, the partially cleaned and scabbed scar on my face forcing me to keep a blank expression, lest I reopen it. As she rushed to my side, I made a physical motion she was all too used to: a hand outstretched and a shrug of my shoulders, "I'm fine" I tried to convey but she ignored it. Wrapping her arms around my chest, I made no effort to hug her back and instead stared at the white gi back that I spotted around the corner of the main room's wall. It bounced rhythmically, clearly heaving in laughter. Whispered under his breath was ".. coddled like always" or something to that effect, but I was still too concussed to fully make out the words. Dragging my heavy legs to the kitchen, I attempted to lift my arms to receive my plate but found I was unable to, seemingly the strain of pushing open the door was enough to have them completely shut down. Murmuring something unintelligible, I, in a sleepless stupor, slowly made my way towards my brother and I's room. Grabbed by my gi pants by my father, he expressed dissatisfaction with something I had done but the words fell on deaf ears. Not one to be ignored, he planted his hand on my bruised chest and slammed me against the nearby wall, spittle and the remnants of the sake bottle he had ingested littering my face as he screamed at me. I was in a completely different world, the combination of concussion and disappointment making for a potent mix as I simply stared through him, unable to express any sort of emotion or remorse for the supposed folly I had committed.

"Honey, do--"

"Shhhut your goddamned mouth, he's like this because of you, woman."

Still staring straight through his face, father's inebriation became evident, if not by the stench of his breath then by his treatment of mother. Typically able to be calmed down by her, he would do a complete 180 when drunk, perhaps it was because he was no longer shackled by a need to be nice, as he offered little reason for her to stick around as is. Beaten wife syndrome, except the beatings were committed on her children. "I'm going to bed, we train early tomorrow, correct?" It took all of my strength to say it aloud but I somehow managed to accomplish the task, but father was still irate, far too much to acknowledge my work ethic. Slapping my chest one last time, he ordered me to my room as if it was his own idea. It always had to be his idea.

"Goodnight."

Sliding open the door, I made a conscious effort to avoid eye contact with brother who, like always, was looking at me worriedly. Soft spoken words attempted to express concern for me but a sharp "Don't." aborted the sound. Slipping back under the covers of his blanket, I did the same in kind, my torn and bloodied gi still draped over my broken body as I nestled into the warmth and comfort of my bed. I was dead behind the eyes but I still made an effort to communicate that I was fine to my brother. Even then, I didn't resent the fact that he didn't get this training, I was sure that his study into the nature and application of lightning was an equally arduous task, the small burns that'd sometimes littered his hands was proof of that, right? I was a baby for getting so bogged down in the punishment and difficulty of training, brother and I were equal and father was simply trying to bring the best out of me, right? I repeated this mantra in my head every night, an attempt to exalt the bruises and blood. Sometimes I still have to sing this "song" in my head to get to sleep.

---

[EITO]

---

Hrrk!

The tranquil trade quarter of Kumogakure slept peacefully, drunken commonfolk made their way back home to face their angry wives, minimal ninja stuck around to do their rounds of the area but most were counting the minutes til they could go back to their own abodes.

"Sto--.."

An attempt to speak, soon silenced by a fist to the throat. To those that walked nearby, it was just the sounds of the city, cats knocking over cans, dogs rustling for food or those less fortunate making their beds for the night. But behind a nameless building there was a brutality being committed, an act of violence that even the perpetrator knew wasn't right. I was 16, angry and at the peak of my frustrations with my father. Often escaping the home at night to train, an especially heinous sparring session with Dad had left a poor taste in my mouth.

Crack!

His femur snapped beneath my barrage of frustrated kicks, the swelling of his lips and the blood that flooded behind them offered a relent from his screams and cries. Hands no longer raised, it seemed the man had given up on trying to block his face, instead speaking silent prayers to himself, hoping I would stop. He had committed no crime, no slight against me or my family. He was guilty only of having a vague resemblance to father and because of that, he drew my ire. Clenching his powder blonde hair in my bloodied hand, I hefted his weight up such that his form slumped against the wall, but the lack of foundation on his left leg and partial consciousness at best meant that he soon began falling to the ground once more.

Thud, splash.

A fierce right hand to the kidney kept him standing and his upright, vulnerable position was maintained by ambidextrous hooks to the jaw, a facet of my repertoire that I did not ignore the irony of. Rocking him back and forth with blows to head near on a dozen times, I soon let the man collapse, his sniveling, crying face and blonde hair so bloodied and disheveled that he didn't resemble father in the slightest. Drawing air into my lungs, I noted that my heart rate had barely increased, a good sign for my physical fitness but not so much for my mental health. This was not the first nor last time that I'd commit this crime, but it was the first time that I was aware of my declining mental state. Too many beatings, perhaps even concussions, had conditioned me to be like this. A trigger, whether it was my father, an insult or even looking at me, would send me into a frenzy. Brother and for some time mother were the only ones safe from my wrath. But for how long?


- end thread

---