The Beauty of Imperfection

Epilogue

Mizu was the worst.

His scream—God, his scream—when he found Shun. God. God. His eyes, wide and deaddeaddead and it wasn't possible Shun couldn't be dead but there he was he was dead he was dead who could do this who could take Shun away who who who who who—

Fuzen.

And oh God oh God it was FuzenFuzenFuzenFuzen Fuzen killed Shun and Fuzen went to release (murder but God did she really even realize that?) Sensei and Fuzen was dead and Sensei killed—freed but God it felt like murder it felt like suicide—Fuzen and how did this happen—

And this is what happens when you asked so much from those who can't give and this is what happens when you put a kunai in an eight year old's hands and this is what happens when you give a littler twelve year old girl a family, a team, and you just rip it away and leave her with nothing and take everything and still ask for moremoremoremoremoremoremoremore and it's not enough, it's never enough until there's nothing left to live for and the real question is why hasn't this happened before?

Very few people attended Fuzen's funeral. Sensei. Hideaki. Sakura. Mizu, for all his kindness, for all his understanding, for all his grace, couldn't make himself go. Kiba showed up hours later, stared at the grave for a long moment, then turned and left.

And that was it.

Shun, though. People he wasn't even friends with came to his funeral because he was the victim, right? Not Fuzen. Fuzen was insane. She was the murderer. Shun was the victim. Shun was dead. Shun.

And Mizu tried to say something, to somehow do Shun justice with these empty words, but when he was up there facing all those expectant eyes, despite everything, he automatically reached for Shun's hand for support before remembering.

Later that week, when Mizu couldn't sleep (the bed was so empty) he visited Shun's grave and caught some teenager desecrating it. He—Mizu, sweet, sweet, Mizu who had both gone through and done so much and had quit being a ninja because he was so tired and loved Shun so much—beat the kid to hell.

They say the kid should make a full recovery.

Mizu spent the entire day on his knees in front of the grave, scrubbing desperately at the hateful words scrawled across the headstone.

Gays burn in hell.

And how could somebody do that? Shun was just a child. He was just a kid who loved so much, too much, with all his heart and it just so happened that who he loved was Mizu. And someone hated him for it. For loving. Perhaps no sin is greater than another, but still, which is worse: loving or hating?

Hideaki threw herself into training. She ascended the ranks of ANBU quickly. After awhile, no one wanted to go on any missions with her. She was good, yes, one of the best. But she was ruthless, now. Cold. The perfect ANBU. Too perfect.

The Hokage was talking about pulling her from active duty. Maybe giving her a team. Making her a sensei. Apparently, she needed a break. To recover. Rest her mind. Forget. Didn't they understand? Seeing all those precious, innocent faces would make it so much worse. Because one day that innocence would be gone, replaced by pain. She didn't want to see that. Not again.

Sensei was devastated.

Devastated.

And occasionally, Sensei still thought about letting Fuzen take him. It wasn't too late. He could see him again, see Tomomi and see Daisuke and see Shun and see Fuzen. Sometimes, when it all seemed to be too much, he would climb all the way up to the top of the hokage mount, clamber over the safety rails and stare at the drop before him. Somehow, way up there, removed from the world, he felt closer to them.

He would always clamber back over onto the right side.

Everything felt so entirely wrong. Very few people knew the full story—the real story. Because it was just so easy to accept that some girl went crazy and killed her gay teammate. No one wanted to dig deeper. No one wanted to know more. No one wanted to look at Konoha and scrape away the sunshine and smiles and reveal the peeling paint, the crumbling walls, the darkness that had taken over this village, this world, long ago.

This world put a kunai in an eight year old's hand. This world taught a nine year old the best ways to kill a man. This world asked ten year olds to memorize techniques to break an enemy. This world forced eleven year olds to prove how well they could kill and steal and lie and live in the shadows (because they certainly hadn't learned to already, right? Shadows of older siblings and ancient clans and impossible expectations don't count, right?).

This world asked twelve year old children to die.

This world asked thirteen year old children to continue despite the death and the tragedy and the never ending, impossible weight put onto those shoulders.

This world asked teenagers—children—to train to avenge those deaths and tragedies.

This world forced children to grow up.

So was it all that difficult to believe that this world had finally broken a sixteen year old girl?

Who were the real monsters here?

This world is far past imperfect.

It is broken.

But see... see, the trick to living in this world (because it is so terribly difficult to do so) is to find the beauty among the brokenness.

And that's hard. There's war. There's hunger. There's monsters asking eight year olds to hold kunai and kill their enemies.

But if you look closely... oh God, if you just look closely.

There are impossible sunrises of beauty. Did you know—did you know—that the sun is positioned so perfectly, poised so incredibly delicately, that any change could bring death? I mean, just think about the smallest things you never think about! Think about oxygen. Any less and we wouldn't be able to go outside; sunburns would occur too quickly... any more and we would have gigantic spiders strolling around our back yard.

Keep the beauty in mind.

When you share a smile with a stranger and oh god that's so terribly awkward but wasn't it just a little bit beautiful? When you're hanging out with your sibling and you suddenly realize just how much you love them. When you see a stranger do something kind when they think no one is looking, when they think nothing good for them can come from it but you saw. The birth of a newborn child. Crying on your best friend's shoulder and realizing that despite the pain someone is there. When two friends catch each other's gaze and that involuntary grin stretches across their face. It's all so beautiful isn't it? The rain and the sun and rainbows and birth and snow and by God, Humans. I can imagine nothing worse and nothing better than a human being.

And so, I suppose, what I am trying to say is that this world is far from perfect. It is a terribly broken world. Humans are a terribly broken species. But it is—they are—also terribly beautiful.

The trick, as I said, is to find the beauty among the brokenness.

You have to find the Beauty of Imperfection.