Grief

                                    

                                          
AKARI
                          
The rain pounds down endlessly, drenching me in my thin black kimono. The sky is an angry gray, mirroring my mood. I sit cross-legged in the rain, before a large gray stone, made black by the falling water.
                          
Masaki Kita
                          
That is the name I've been unable to keep my eyes off of. I try to let them wander, to take in the many other names listed here, to focus my grief somewhere else. But like a magnet, my eyes are always pulled to the same spot.
                          
I saw this stone the day I met my team, before my match with Kiba. Back then, I didn't understand what this was, why it was here. I only saw it as a point of reference when describing the training ground I was taken to, when I recounted the day's events to Masaki that night. He'd known what it was, but he didn't like to talk about it. I now know that is because his father's name is listed here.
                          
Taiki Kita.
                          
It's sad I only learned this man's name when Masaki's personal records were shown to me, yesterday, several days after I was released from the hospital. There was information on Taiki, his life as a Ninja, his missions, successes and failures, comrades lost and comrades saved. The scrolls told of his death, as well, how he was struck from behind by a frightened villager in the Land of Tea, who thought he was an enemy Ninja.
                          
Masaki had been struck down by a group of Sound Ninja and Sand Ninja, who cornered him in the middle of the Village. He'd killed a few of them, but in the end they overwhelmed him, and gave him the gash in his chest that would be his undoing. Then, they left him to die a slow and painful death.
                          
Masaki hadn't been in the stadium during the Exams. He'd been on a mission the day before, and was only just returning when Gaara's match was starting. When the attack began, he and his teammates were separated, sent to defend different parts of the Village as backup. They weren't meant to engage in direct combat.
                          
Masaki never was one to sit on the sidelines and watch.
                          
Botan and Ei came here yesterday, like me, when Masaki's name was added to the Memorial Stone. They cried together, and Ei, the more stoic of the two, even expressed her feelings for my brother. Fuyumi, his girlfriend, had just come up to pay her respects, and heard Ei's confession. The two then got into a very undignified cat fight, which was incredibly stupid considering Ei would only have to throw one punch and Fuyumi would've been out for the count.
                          
And all I could think while watching that was: Masaki would've loved this.
                          
Botan came by again this morning to drop off flowers for Masaki. I was already here, having been here since dawn actually. She sat with me for a while in a friendly silence, and when I started to cry she wrapped her arms around me. Before leaving for Third Hokage's funeral, she handed me something I've been clutching ever since.
                          
Masaki's headband.
                          
It's scratched and bruised and beaten, but it is unmistakably his. I look down at it now, the dull metal barely reflecting my damp face, my reflection wavering and distorted. Cold rain and warm tears drip down onto it, the sound very loud in my ears, despite the pounding of rain all around me.
                          
I reach out and trace my fingers over Masaki's name again. It must be the hundreth or so time I've done this since yesterday, but I know it won't be the last. I don't know why I do it; it doesn't make me feel any better, fill the hole in my heart, rid me of my hollowness. It is almost an unconscious movement without purpose, except to remind me of my guilt and depression.
                          
There's a slight sound behind me, of approaching footsteps. I don't turn, very much uncaring as to the identity of the newcomer. It doesn't concern me, and neither does their reason for being here. Though, if they're here, it must be to pay their respects for a fallen friend.