Whether or not this is a cell is unknown to me, however I continue to wonder it ass if I have some sort of free will and am not simply just something that is called upon whenever the urge is felt from a host. I wonder if this is what it's like to be a soul, a spirit, some kind off being trapped inside of another. If I were to die while he did, I would be a parasite, but I would not. I'd linger on. I'll survive long beyond his body as I'm much more than human. I'm a thought really. A feeling of sorts. I think. I'm not sure sometimes. It seems like I remember others, others like him, but I can never be sure. These however, are the things I think of while he sleeps as I am unable to rest myself, always wondering when he might call on me. In his sleep is one of the most common times to do so. Fear, as Oboro calls it, haunts him in his sleep. Fear, weakness, anger: all are me in some way. He just doesn't know it yet. Just as he's unaware that I know of his dreams, of his fears, of his anger. Now, he dreams of loss, things he's unsure of in the overworld, but in the world of slumber is so clear to him. They say upon murdering another, one loses part of their soul forever, so does that mean all of his soul is lost? If so, how can I exist?
My thoughts were shushed as he rose from his slumber, cold sweats dripping off of his brow. "Filthy," he would say to himself with no memory whatsoever of what happened in the last six hours of his sleep. The same sense of superiority could be felt within the recesses of my core, and so I said nothing to him. Beckons came for his mind towards me, thought I only explained to him that I was tired and must rest. I do not tire, though he knows no better. And so I sat and watched as Oboro allowed the sheets to fall from his nude body as he stood from the wooden frame with single mattress resting atop of it. A few paces led him to the bathroom to which he turned on a shower and allowed the boiling water to wash him of his sweat from which he received the night before. The tingle of his skin against the rampant water was pain enough to know he was alive and brought a smile to his face. A few moments was all it took to wash and he was out, shaking his black, spiky hair out before dressing himself and making his way out the door to look over the village.
A few paces was all it took to find the bridge resting over the stream of a river just outside of his temporary home. Chakra bubbled up from within him as he looked out into the water, watching a frog on a lillypad hunt for flies on unstable water. He seemed to be struggling, missing the first few flicks of the tongue though after a moment, he was finally able to snag one. What kind of prey hovers about a predator? Something Oboro would never understand, but I understood completely. It was the rush of death.
[564]
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