Your Lies | Itachi Uchiha x Reader

Chapter 9

My mother was rearranging the couch cushions as I approached from behind. I hesitated. There was something important I needed to ask her—something I'd asked many times before.

"Mother, I... I want to ask you something," I said, my voice faltering.

She turned, looking at me with her usual cold, unreadable expression. If I had to guess, she looked irritated. But it was hard to tell—she always looked like that.

"Could you please help me with Ice Release?" I asked, trying not to sound too desperate. "I don't have anyone to guide me, and the scriptures and old scrolls are too hard to understand."

I waited anxiously, hoping her answer would be different this time.

She didn't respond.

Instead, she slowly turned back around and resumed dusting the cushions, completely ignoring me.

"Mother!" I yelped. "I can't improve if I don't have someone to train me! Someone who understands this bloodline technique!"

She glanced at me for just a second... then returned to her task.

"Find someone else."

Her voice was low and dismissive. As always, her replies were short—never enough to start an actual conversation.

"There is no one else!" I cried, frustration bubbling up. "At least no one I know of. Most Ice Release users are either in hiding or scattered across the world!"

Again, she said nothing.

"Please say something..." I whispered. I hated how talking to her always felt like I was talking to a wall.

No reply. Just silence.

"Mother..." My throat tightened. I sniffled. Why am I crying? Pull it together, Y/n. I didn't even know why the tears came. I didn't want to give her the satisfaction of knowing she'd hurt me.

"Whatever," I muttered, trying to act like I didn't care.

But I did.

I ran upstairs to my room, wiping away the tears I didn't want to admit were there.

Ever since my father died, my mother hasn't been the same. It hit her harder than it hit me or Mei. Before his death, she was bubbly, warm—talkative, even. But the day she got the news, it was like something in her snapped. She shut everyone out.

She stopped speaking to her friends. She stopped going out. Now she only interacts with me and Mei... and even that feels like a stretch. We tried taking her to therapy, but she never opened up—not even a little.

It's been thirteen years since then. And every year, it gets harder to watch her live like this—because it's not really living. At this point, she's just surviving. Just... existing.

Even though she acts indifferent, I know some things still affect her. Anytime someone brings up shinobi matters, she scowls—like she resents the world that took him from her.

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Her blood ran cold.

She collapsed, the news of my father's death hitting her like a kunai to the chest.

Just like that, I was five years old again—trapped in a memory I had no control over.

"Mother! Wake up!" a young Mei sobbed, clutching her. She shook her desperately, eyes wild with fear.

I stood frozen. I knew this was just a memory, but it didn't feel like one. It felt real. The fear I felt then—that sharp, horrible fear—washed over me again. I remembered thinking what if she dies too?

I was too young to understand grief. All I knew was that I couldn't handle losing both parents. One had already been ripped away.

Two masked ANBU arrived, rushing through the front door. They found Mei crying over our mother's unconscious body. I didn't know it then, but they had only come to retrieve the official death paperwork. They had already delivered the message... and now needed a signature.

They weren't supposed to see us like this. They had just arrived—and happened to catch Mei's scream at the right time.

"Please, help her! Don't let her die!" Mei sobbed. Her tiny voice cracked under the weight of fear.

"We won't, Lady Mei," one ANBU replied gently.

The other nodded. "We need to get her to the hospital."

They lifted our mother carefully and carried her outside. Mei followed close behind, not even thinking to look back at me.

I stayed behind, alone in the house, watching them disappear into the rain.

She'll be okay, I told myself. Mother's strong. But I was crying. "Shinobi don't cry," I whispered, wiping my cheeks.

I waited on the porch for hours. I didn't like being alone. I felt exposed... unprotected. Eventually, I went back inside and locked the door.

I sat down in the same spot where she had collapsed earlier. On the table, I noticed a piece of paper. I couldn't read yet—I hadn't started school—but I'd learned the alphabet and some basic sounds.

The words were small and tightly spaced. The biggest letters were at the top. I sounded them out slowly.

"Duh... De... Death."

The first word I ever read... was death.

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I looked down at my hands. Then up at the mirror. I was back in my 18-year-old body again.

I touched my face, just to make sure this was real—that I wasn't still stuck in a flashback.

These memories... my mind had buried them for a reason. They were too painful to live with. But every once in a while, one of them clawed its way back to the surface—and I'd be forced to relive the nightmare.

I grabbed a hairbrush and began brushing my hair frantically, trying to focus on something—anything—else.

This isn't working. I dropped the brush. My chest felt tight.

I had to get out of the house. If I stayed, I'd just fall deeper into these thoughts... or worse, dig up more memories I wasn't ready for.

I needed a distraction.

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