Hey everyone!
First of all, thanks for stumbling into this story. It's been a lot of fun to write, so I hope you have fun reading it. I've updated the chapters a little, so you may notice some changes if this isn't your first time.
Be prepared for this story to be updated very infrequently-I'm literally the worst at updating in the history of ever. Of course, you already know that by now...
Anyway, I don't own Naruto. If I did, I probably wouldn't be spending my time going to college, that's for sure.
Tenten is undoubtedly out of character here, and I do apologize for that. Regardless, I hope you enjoy.
-Nyroc
Today is the twenty-sixth day that has passed since my life exploded into tiny pieces and burned itself at the stake, right before my eyes.
On day twenty-two, my mother and I got into the car and set out from our hot, dry little town in the Southwest. After 1,640 miles, 31 pit-stops, and 28 hours worth of driving, we ended up in the heart of a rainy big city forever-and-a-half hours worth of traffic south of Seattle. This is the city where my widowed grandmother lives. It's called Tacoma. I think.
On day seventeen, my mother called her mother. Explained the situation. Made arrangements. Told me I was going to go to the other side of the country to live with her. Told me to pack, because I was going to be living there for a while, because I needed to get out of this cramped little town, because I needed some bustling big-city air to get my mind off things. She didn't ask if I was okay with that.
On day sixteen, my parents had a chat behind their closed bedroom door. I was unruly/depressed/moody/needed to get away from this town. I was a hassle to get out of bed/unwilling to try to go back to my normal life/a complete and total zombie/suddenly lazy/moody/depressed/unruly. I guess they hadn't realized that, after eighteen years, our walls didn't suddenly/hopefully/magically turn soundproof. Their words hurt me in my gut, but my gut was too numb to feel it.
On day ten, I was admittedly a mess. I was spending my days in my room, staring at my ceiling, ticking the hours by with nothing but static in my head and emptiness in my belly.
On day four, my parents and I went to the funeral. I wore a black dress on my body and a black sneaker to match the black boot-splint on my foot. I watched them lower two caskets into the cold, dead earth. It was a closed-casket service. They had white roses and pale yellow tulips.
On day two, they released me from the hospital. My brain/ankle/arm/vital signs were functioning properly/hairline-fractured but splinted and set to go/stitched to perfection and bandaged/normal. They sent me home with prescription-strength painkillers for my cracked ribs, but nothing for my broken heart.
On day one, I slept for twenty hours. Dreamless.
On the day when the counting of days began, I got into the car with my best friend and my second-best friend after soccer practice, just like always. Mina drove. I rode shotgun. Kyoko was in the back on the driver's side. We were hot chicks with a plan for world domination and, after slushies from the corner gas station, $6.47 to make it happen. We were alive, laughing, listening to a CD of a local garage band with a bassist that we all had the hots for. Mina slowed down and stopped when a light turned red. Mina was a good driver. A great driver.
There was no way that any of us could have predicted that the car behind us wouldn't notice the red. We didn't expect to be slammed in the rear bumper and rocketed into oncoming traffic. We didn't expect to not walk away.
Band tee-shirt. Denim shorts. White shorts. Another band tee-shirt.
My hands tell me what things are and where they go as I pull clothing items from the box by my side. It's hard work, fighting back memories of the clothes I wore for three and one-quarter years during high school. My fingertips touch lace, and I look down. It's the skirt that I wore to my first-ever high school party, with purple fabric and a black lace overlay. It's a cute skirt, but painful for me to think about. That was the day that I met-
I drop the skirt like it's a hot coal and stand up too fast. The room immediately starts to pitch around, but I don't care enough to notice. I float out of the room with stars in my eyes and a dull ache in my belly.
Down the stairs I go, my bare feet padding along on the carpet. I already know that Gran is out by the lack of humming. That's okay, though; I don't mind being alone. I go into what I think is the kitchen and wind up in the den. I turn around and wander until I my feet hit the linoleum floor. My navigational system is still having difficulties adjusting to the change in setting.
I meander to the pantry and pull out whatever my hand touches first, and then head back upstairs to what has become my bedroom. It's sparse, of course; the would-be guest bedroom still has the simple wooden bed frame, white eyelet curtains, wooden night-stand that doesn't match the bed, and robin-egg blue paint job that has been there since before I can remember. Other than that, a new wooden desk, and the door to a closet that has the exact dimensions of a standard-sized coffin, there's absolutely nothing in here. Oh, except for the moving boxes.
I crunch into dry, uncooked pasta. My lip curls a little, and I close the box to set it on top of the desk. So much for my snack.
I lay down on the bare mattress, my head full of static and unpleasant thoughts. I can't face the boxes any more today. I close my eyes against the dull light bulb above my head and try to tune out the world.
The world is dark outside my window when I wake. Looking over at the alarm clock on the night stand, the red numbers indicate to me that it's some early hour of the morning. I squint and lean closer to make out 4:16 a.m. I sit up and swing my legs over the side of the bed. When my feet touch carpet instead of hardwood, I feel a brief sense of disorientation before I remember where I am. I frown and get out of bed. Frowning is something I do a lot these days.
I stalk downstairs to make coffee before I have a chance to remember that Gran doesn't believe in the power of caffeine. God Save the Queen. I curse in my head and stalk back up the steps, deciding to go back to bed.
I lay on the mattress for an hour before giving up on sleep and getting up. I rummage through a box of clothing until I find something that doesn't have any painful emotions attached to it. A pair of ripped jeans from the summer before freshman year slides itself onto my legs, and a plain red long-sleeved tee finds itself on my torso. I'm a little surprised that the clothes still fit, but whatever. I head back down the stairs and into the kitchen. Gran is up now, humming to herself as she scrambles eggs in a skillet.
Gran is the typical image of a grandmother. She's a little plump, but not fat; she just has a roll of love around her tummy. She draws on her eyebrows every morning and wears perfume and does yoga with her old lady friends. Her skin doesn't bag too terribly at her neck and around her arms, and she's got great legs. At least she has a vague grasp on a sense of style; today she's wearing a light blue button-down blouse and khaki slacks. Her hair is dyed strawberry blonde, and she keeps it short and choppy and spiked up in the back like a lot of middle-aged women. Her eyes are honey-brown, like mine. She's a pretty woman, overall; at least I know I get it honestly.
Gran looks over her shoulder and smiles when she sees me looking.
"Good morning, Sweetie," she says, greeting me. Her voice is medium-high alto and about as sweet as American Honey. Not that I've ever tried it, of course.
There's a pause, and then she prods me with "Did you sleep well?"
All I can do is nod because I'm not awake yet and I don't actually feel like talking. But, then again, I don't do much talking at all these days.
Gran sighs softly and hands me a plate of eggs and buttered toast with jam. I used to love it as a kid, but now I don't care as much. I eat it mechanically anyways, chewing the same number of times every bite. Chew chew chew chew chew chew chew chew chew chew chew. Eleven times. A nice, rounded number. Once finished, I wash my plate in the sink and pick up the brand-new backpack that's by the door, filled with this school year's necessities. Everything in there is new except for my Spanish notebook, since I'm going to need it. Everything's new. New is good. New doesn't have painful memories attached to it.
"Do you want me to take you to school?" Gran asks.
I shake my head no. "I'll walk." My voice sounds a little different than it usually does, since I haven't said a word after the routine hellos when I got here two days ago. When I look over at her, she looks startled.
"Are you sure?" she checks, almost pleading. It's kind of a desperate recovery, but I can't hold that against her. "It's three miles. It won't take any time to get you there."
I shake my head once more and sling the backpack onto one of my shoulders, then the other.
"It's just three miles. I'll be okay."
"Do you want a bus schedule?"
"Gran, I'll be okay." I look up at her and give a little shrug as I take my cell phone from the counter and slide it into my pocket. I turn to go.
"Tenny," she calls. It's something I haven't heard since I was about twelve. "Be careful, Honey."
I look back at her and nod my understanding, then head to school.