And I know that I'm wrong...
The weaker you get, the more I feel strong.
So I want you to leave,
Wipe you face on your sleeve
And BS.
Sometimes, when nights were quiet and the windows were closed, Naruto would stare. His shirt would lie with his jacket in a heaped puddle of black and orange in the corner, and he'd just watch. He'd look at himself in the mirror, staring at perfectly healed tan skin, at spiked gold hair, at infuriatingly blue eyes. He'd take in the strong posture, drink in the confident attitude, and relish in the radiance he projected. He'd watch the perfectly normal, sweet, carefree, human in the mirror smile, and he'd hate himself.
Sometimes, he'd let the pads of his fingers, roughened by time as a ninja, scrape over the flesh of his stomach, touching the muscles he'd working so hard to get, skimming the secret that lay entrapped there. He'd let them dig into the flesh, scratching here and there, kneeding the piles of wound up knots, stuffing down the insanity that threatened to invade everytime he looked the other way.
Sometimes, he'd let his nails sharpen, let them drag long, pretty cuts that beaded blood over that smoothly ridged stomach, watching the darkening of the spiral placed there. It would be tan, just dark enough to seem different from his skin, a sort of murky brown. It pulsed as the slits in his skin healed and became no more. He would turn out the lights, try and hide the reflection he didn't want to see... and see it anyways, as if he'd never hit the switch.
When he was really angry, the crystal clear eyes would bleed purple, then seep red. His flesh would prickle and burn, his hair would thicken and stiffen, and the dark, murky spiral would gain symbols, would darken to black. Sometimes, it would turn the china-ink color of the Anbu tattoo that had been stitched fastidiously to his shoulder. The mark of honor versus the curse of life. It would be beautiful, the darkened flesh stretched taut across powerful muscles, enhanced by everything normal ninjas' didn't have. He'd feel his senses sharpen even as his own consciousness faded and feel tempted to growl at the intoxication of power he was floating in. He'd stare at the fangs pricking his lips, twisting them into a grin of savage delight, and he'd let his claws dig into his palms hard enough to draw blood, smell the oh-so-delicious tang of metal and iron filling the air. Then... Then he'd hate himself even more.
Sometimes, Naruto would be normal, would smile at himself cheerily, rub his fingers over the ridges of his cheeks, make muscles in the mirrors. He'd bounce around like there was never anything wrong, that he was just as he should be. He'd chirp away at his friends, laugh away all their worries, smile at all their oddities. Maybe Sakura would call him an idiot, or Kiba would laugh like he didn't smell the fear that lay beneath Naruto's skin. And that was fine, because Naruto would be strong and certain and confident and idealistic. A boy with a heart of gold.
Often, he would stare and stare and stare…
And the hatred the coiled there beneath the china-ink in his stomach would spread and invade and sicken. His throat would close, his mind would dull and the bubbling in his chest would plow it's way up through his nose, pry away at his jaws, beg to be released and Naruto would want more than anything else to just… let go. It would boil and smoulder and burn and Naruto's eyes would tear up at the effort to just keep going, keep fighting to contain each thought, struggling for each breath as it was suppressed, compressed into his chest. He would begin to lose himself, and as much as it hurt and killed him and sent panic scurrying through his system like fleeing mice, there was always that tantalizing bit or relief, the small part of him that sputtered in an ember or serenity, surrounded by the writhing mass of everything else. That was when he'd curl in on himself and he'd hug his stomach until he thought he would be sick. He'd squeeze his eyes shut, pretend all the sounds racing into his ears and drowning him were gone, pretend that he was numb and could feel the scalding heat and fear and wrath and then, and then… then…...
And then he'd wake up the next morning. There would be no traces of the night left over; no marks, no stains, no ink. He would eat his ramen, tousle his hair, scrap blood from beneath his nails, check his wallet. The jacket that had been tossed away would be tugged on, the headband thrown contemptuously into the corner tied on lovingly, and the brilliant smile Naruto always wore would paste itself into place, as perfect as the day he'd been born.
Because Naruto only hated himself sometimes.
This is for all those people who have had moments like these. Who feel themselves fall to the bottom of that damn well and start sinking, but somehow manage to get up every morning and go on with their days like nothing happened. Good news: The only way left to go is up.
Well, what can I say about this. It's short, it's not very sweet, and it's straight to the point. The way Naruto is feeling in this is probably a way you can view him if you ignore Kishimoto-sama's take on it. It's also how he (Kishimoto) probably thinks that Sasuke views his life and his disgust of it. So, take Sasuke's emo-ness, hide it behind Naruto's smile, and you have this story.
Read and Review. Feel free to leave your own quiet stories as well. I always answer reviewers, and I'm always here to listen.
Song: Stop a Bullet - Black Light Burns
Word Count: 1,051 words
(This may or may not be continued in the future)