hold your head high, child, you were born to make mountains crumble
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When she pulls the kunai out of her first dead man’s throat, the blood that stains her hands won’t wash out for days. She shakes for weeks, adrenaline roaring, her head filled with images of red smiles and bloodless faces. Dead eyes staring up at her.
She stumbles into the hokage’s smoke-smelling office after the mission is completed, and the third congratulates her on a job well done. She locks herself in the bathroom, buries her head in her knees and hugs herself while she cries. She doesn’t stop until her throat is raw and her eyes are puffy.
When she is done, she scrubs her face, squares her shoulders, and moves on.
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She reaches over, plucks the cigarette from Shikamaru's lips, and brings it to her own. Her throat burns and her lungs ache, but she doesn’t cough. There is a cold in her chest that she can’t relieve, the smoke feels like burning, but it feels like life.
“These things kill you,” she says to him, between drags of smoke.
“A lot of things do these days,” he answers, then lights another.
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