[Ishikawa Ren]

     At first he heaved forward handful of grass by handful of grass, his toeless feet dragging behind him. Every slide saw his ruined chest ripped by rock and dirt. Ren went as fast as he could. When he'd reached the end of the clearing, he looked back at the cabin, framed by trees like a painting.

     The door remained shut. He'd heard Utsuwa's anguished cries for him to stop, to return. They were not following. He turned back and resumed his crawl. What direction to the road? He did not know. He followed the subtle signs of their prior coming - broken leaves, dark black spots of his own blood, his face inches from where Utsuwa had walked before.

     How long ago had that been? It felt like days, weeks even. But the sun still shone overhead. Had it been mere hours? Ren pulled himself over a tree root, cried out with a broken voice. Birds scattered from the branch. He had no more strength. No more chakra. He should have been dead, long ago.

     In truth, he did not know why he pushed on. Why he struggled so. The thing in his eye sat there, glumly. It seemed content that he simply lay down and die here. It didn't seem so different from home, he thought. In fact, he could have sworn he could see the village from just beyond the next rise.

     Ren came coughing over the hill, sliding down like a threadbare bag full of meat. He came to lie in a cloud of dust along the side of the road, and shut his eyes, oblivious to the yelling voices calling his name down the path.

Kyodai Utsuwa | 278 words