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❝fake friends to me make my mood go south like tennessee make the fool come out like 'who is she?'❞ myself, bazzi
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"Blood type?"
"I can't recall," the small girl answered honestly, her eyes scanning over her green and blue veins, the light bruises dancing along her forearm. She didn't remember ever being told, or ever really knowing; but she remembered being asked for verification purposes. Everything from the hidden rose village had been documented in the mist village, where the survivors from ___ had been taken.
From what exactly?
She was hiding, she knew this. Except, she didn't know what she knew, she just knew that she knew something important and her brain wasn't allowing her to know.
She felt a needle being pulled from her forearm and hissed, the shock hitting her once she heard the metal contraption beside her beep.
"O type." The nurse shook her head and her eyes sunk as she frowned, as if something were wrong with her blood, something was different. "That's odd." And then she walked back towards the informational clipboard once hanging on the front of her gurney, now on the door of the check up rooms where all the annoying stuff happens. She scanned the piece of paper, until her eyes lit up.
"What's odd?" Koharu asked, but she couldn't stop staring at the machine flashing O in bold red letters across a black screen, the letter being odd, for some reason.
The nurse pursed her lips, weary, but nevertheless, she faked a smile, and hid the clipboard behind her back. "It's nothing." She lied right through her teeth.
Blue shoes stop their tracks against a muddy ground, the fog around her lean body disappearing all of a sudden, but the fog in her mind doesn't mind continuing its hopeless banter. Her ears red from the sun shower's humidity, her clothes sticking to her skin uncomfortably, and her hair is this patchy, two-toned mess of a bun lying atop her head with baby hairs that frolicked with her sweaty forehead whenever the wind decided to breeze by and then stop.
Koharu's eyes scour her surroundings, searching for some kind of anecdote or deja vu that'll help her remember something that was once so obviously important—but she can't. She can't remember the obviously important thing, and knowing how important it is sends sickening chills up her spine.
Chills she can't afford to think about right now because she's on her way to the academy and it's basically a bitter surprise to anyone who was humane enough to remember who she was. Well, whoever was left, anyway.
Her hands squeeze her bag strap until her knuckles become pasty white, her chest slowly dipping and then rising whenever she draws in a deep breath to relax her nerves. You're a jonin, she thought, a fucking jonin. But it doesn't tame the usually silent animal clawing around in the barrel of her chest, praying on her overthought thoughts and feelings of petty nervousness. To be a good ninja, one must remember that feelings are nothing more than silly brain chemicals.
