| 渦巻 病気 | |
 |
|
| Personal | |
|---|---|
| Birthplace | Land of Water |
| Birthdate | 09/17/02 B.F. |
| Gender |  |
| Age | 14 |
| Height | 4’7” |
| Weight | 81 lbs. |
| Blood Type | O- |
| Clan |  |
| Kekkei Genkai | Uzumaki Longevity |
| Affiliation |  |
| Team | N/A |
| Rank | |
| Ninja Rank |  |
| Nature Type | |
| Element (Primary) |  |
| Family | |
| Father | Uzumaki Goro |
| Signature Jutsu | |
|---|---|
| N/A |
Excerpt from 591:
“I heard a Fly buzz – when I died –
The Stillness in the Room
Was like the Stillness in the Air –
Between the Heaves of Storm –“
-E. Dickinson
Background
“My first memory is realizing I’m in it, crying myself rotten. I can see him watching me. He made me wear it. That I might not spread the ill to others. The ill which made my mother so before I was born; the same he says killed her while. The ill he named me after.
My father has three truths, as he calls them. The first: the body must be purified through violence. A base concept, yes, easy to perform. A foal needs run faster than the other young ones if it wishes to outrun the wolf. You must believe that the wolf is always on the hunt, that the wolf is always hungry. I was born in Kirigakure, so this truth is too apparent. There are brutes, there are cheats, there are snakes. Always fight a brute. You may not win, but your endurance startles. The mask breaks, I learned from this. It becomes dysfunctional. I passed out, slowly, and he thought he had just struck me toughly. I awoke to the mask off, the brute horrified at the blinking empty socket, and I snatched it back on, he settled. I passed out again, foolishly. I awoke to him over me, the mask on again. I could breathe. I knew it was the same because it smelled of my sweat. Now you know to protect yourself, he said. The first lesson. There were more, many more, all rude in how abruptly I walked into them. He never warns me.
The eye is actually my fault. The evidence seems already contrary, but don’t believe that. There was snow on the ground, impeding me, forcefully. Firewood. My duty, and I will not be one to complain. I was collecting firewood, cold. Young. Too young I now understand, but hindsight has perfect vision. I did learn from it though: nothing makes sense and everything isn’t fair. It was cold, I young, and the snowy-shouldered trees evaporated the world white. There was a thick nest cradled in a high nook of one. Father would be proud of eggs. The nest was bigger up close, much bigger, and the mother came charging in with claws and beak, thrashing me round. I fell, turned in the air to catch a branch and caught the broken finger of one instead. I didn’t even notice until I hit the ground, though I imagine that’s also the reason why I did. Life is full of dualities, ironically. What I noticed, when I put my hand up to my face because I had certainly heard the sound, the shatter, and there: a hole, in the mask, left eye. My vision wasn’t able to be saved, the cut became infected, my father didn’t believe in man’s medicines. Doesn’t, I should say. He cut it out, made me hold my breath in front of him. It’s hollow now. That’s why I blacken the lens.
The second truth: the mind is purified by eliminating the conscience. One accomplishes this by inflicting pain. I let myself bleed a while, sometimes, what it feels like warm down my arm. It’s easy to understand this truth. That’s why I like doing it to others. All delight to destroy, that’s why we constantly fight, war after war after war. It is alive to bleed; pain does not lie. We Uzumaki can forget this in how long we live, watching our brethren around wither whilst we bloom. When you graduate from the Academy in Kirigakure, they pitch you and two others against a wild beast. I suppose if you can’t beat a beast, what hope do you have against a thoughtful opponent. The others were killed: a distraction which allowed me to vanquish the thing. I remember it whined as I drove my machete into its neck. Everything living fears death. But pain? We should not fear pain. We should not fear ourselves for it. That is the beginning. There are brutes, there are cheats, there are snakes. The greatest will be the one who cheats death itself.
There are no pictures of my mother, no letters, no mementos. She must have been, yes, otherwise I would not. And I am, so she was. I think about her constantly: what she would look like, how she talked, if she was tall, if she kept her hair up, if she made my father smile, if she talked to me until I was asleep. She has a million different faces, and I remember them all. He does not permit me speak of her, so she exists in mind alone.
My father’s final truth involves the spirit: it is made pure by enduring. Weakness must be eliminated in all its forms. My father once came home after too long at the sake house, his breath ragged when he finally stepped through the doorway. I tripped him, told him he stumbled over a pitcher of water. While he lay on the floor, his breathing large and slow, I asked him about mother. I remember the ways his eyes flashed, narrowed then, and he sat up, quiet, his whites had before been swimming lost were now clear and sound, not a word. He was quiet for months. He did not look at me, did not acknowledge me, did not believe I existed any longer. He cut off my pinky finger at the end of the eighth month. He spoke again: if you are careless, you will not endure. He becomes alone too, I know. It too is something we must endure. The serpent eats its tail; this deathless ever world of ourselves. As I say: there are brutes, there are cheats, and there are snakes.”
Appearance
He is short, thin, pale. Noticeably, flush over his face, a black gas mask, rebreathers shallow against the rubber, makes his voice sound small and distant. The left eye of the mask is crudely blacked out, the right reveals a large purple iris. His hair is black, greasy, straight, long enough to often fall over front of the rubber face. A shirt over which a buttoned one over which an overcoat; pants bunched from ankle to hip; scarf around the waist, around the neck; fingerless gloves — everything tattered and thin grays and blacks as if he’s never warm enough or hates to get rid of things. Though sloppy, all but his overcoat (it too big, the hood cast wide over his head) all fits slim to his thin frame. A pair of black boots tie up past the ankle. A machete and a kitbag are belted across his chest onto his back. Metallic guards protect a hand, a knee, the toe of a boot, each squiggled in four.
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