Often times he wondered why he couldn't see other things beside the constant curtain of red with the Sharingan. He would have liked to see his future. May' be. The swollen moon faces of the children he might one day get up the courage to have. The breath of the woman he might someday get up the courage to hold on to, instead of reveling in their bodies and then trading them out for newer models every inevitable second like the coward he was. Or rather he pretended not to be.

There was bravado in The Eye, And bravado in his character. Kakashi Hatake the unyielding stone face. Pretention was a noose. That hung delicately from his neck awaiting command. And sometimes he wished to just off the battlement into the whoosh of empty air and the satisfying SNAP at the end.

And sometimes he wished he could see his own death. But then he was afraid. He knew he would never be able to stomach his final moments, and thoughts of himself belly up often drove him to sleepless nights on his rooftops bouncing stars off the rims of sake glasses. He'd once been told that wishing stars were guardian angels. But the old coot who'd told him so was long dead now, and all the wishing never seemed to offer him any aid. In the end he hoped he Went where no one could see him. Death incognito.

Standing on the grounds of the hero's memorial , he reached out a charred hand and pressed the blistered palm to the stone. The cool marble eased the self afflicted burn marks. They were from his anger and from all of the chakra he had worked up into that stupid lightning blade. A move perfected by The Eye. Which was all so horribly wrong. So wrong that at times he felt like crying, but that was laughable. So he ended up with fried palms instead.

Blazes. He was foolish. Believing in second chances. And that the constant whirring was the dead boy's whispers in his ears. But it was only that he had voices in his head. He was crazy.

Half wit rain begins to fall. He allows his hand to run down the stone, reading the names carefully even though he's memorized them in order several times over. The etched in names are uneven surfaces, scratch at his hands, the blisters pop. But he pays no mind to this, he would have picked them open later anyway.

He lifts his headband. He's searching for faces in the stone. Faces to match the names to. And then bodies to match with the faces. And auras. And smiles. And souls. And people. He wills himself to see it. Straining, squinting, trying so hard it hurts. The sharingan whirring feverishly, spinning furiously. But to no avail. Aimless. Worthless. Stupid.

He stands in the rain under a coat of sorrow. And it almost manages to break through his stone surface. But then he closes his eyes. And lowers his headband. And turns his back on the stone and walks away.

There are some things even the Sharingan can never see.