Coffin Birth:
D r e a m s † M e m o r i e s
Author: D' the estrange
Warnings: Child abuse, substance abuse, gore
Rated: T (M for later chapters)
Summary: He doesn't question his own sanity, or the lack thereof. People like him were never sane to begin with, remake of Coffin Birth.
Rhapsody Talk
At the loss of sanity, there is lack of reason
Where there is lack of reason, there is fantasy
There's little to remember, of who he was or how he ended up in a place like this, a place that could be both described as his home, and his Hell.
From the foul stench of sweat and copper lingering in the air like an ominous mist, the quelling of rusting cuffs chafes at his wrists, sprinkling his hands and calves in red—this was all that he had known past the starch white walls that was his prison.
A kind of hell fitted for people like him.
None had thought of this boy as a [child]. He could more or less understand why he was here in the first place, left here to rot with only his "meals" to keep him company. Good little boys, [normal] little boys, did not eat convicted criminals.
"Disgusting."
And that hollow thud of bones and muscle tearing in accord with inhuman, near animalistic, screams.
Their blood staining at his leather bindings, red against charcoal black, talons pricked with small hairs and flabby skin, fangs glistening under a single bulb clamped down on a thick neck.
He can taste blood on his tongue, easing down past chapped lips as he relishes in his prey's blood-choked gargles. The smell of copper and death lingers and he welcomes it as he feasts.
A single piece to the puzzle of scattered remnants, only a faint memory—the pungent odor of perfume, of a woman, sometimes a girl, her bosom a comforting warmth with the steady beat of her heart his only known lullaby.
[Sunflowers] a blooming meadow in late summer's eve, he could only carry so many, but it was worth all the mosquito bites and bee stings to see her smile…
He was not human, a monster, they would scream.
Metal clasps linked his arms to the small of his back, cuffs lined with tiny spikes dig at his wrists, cutting him with every jerk of his arms. Iron linked chains bound from the ceiling kept him standing straining the muscles in his arms and legs, a strap around the stand-up collar of his straitjacket circled his neck threatening to choke him with every breath he took.
This was all necessary, they say. This was all to keep him in check, no escape, there was nowhere for him to go either way.
No memory, no home,
[No nothing]
"Hello boy," A voice speaks erratic static present. It almost makes the boy smile.
"…hnnn," he could only moan, hello Radioman.
"The voice of [Cielo] speaks,
His words are law,
Law becomes action,
Action turns into war,"
The monotonous voice quotes, repeating the same words that he knows by heart now. It was always the same with them.
War turns into bloodshed.
What did it have to do with him? What was he here for…?
"—a loss of question," a question of [anomaly]
He was one, an irregularity. An excuse of experimentation used upon, a [thing] of unknown proportions, of what exactly he was not sure; he doubts that they knew either.
"Who are you?" The static voice queries,
[What are you?]
Why hello there Mr. Radioman, see you have been doing good, well my name is—
"N-Naru…to." He moans again, throat dry, tongue swelling like a sponge, the taste of dry blood coating his lips. They never gave him water, never water. Tugging weakly at his restraints ignoring the spikes that tore at his wrist, he grinned weakly as his talons scraped against the iron lock. Bingo.
"Time's up,"
"Yeah, for you…"
A pleasant smile danced upon bloodstained lips, his eyes gleaming eerily behind blindfolds as lights flash on and only the sound of the screeching of metal is heard.
He despised the color red, that much he knew.
From the coppery blood that trailed after him down the pristine halls, dark prints smearing white paint with limp bodies spoiled all over polish floors. No need to see it for himself death reeked all around him; in the air like a thick fog, he could almost taste it on his tongue. It did not deter him, nevertheless; he has been around death around long enough to be its shadow.
"Kufufu…"
However, what made him despise the color red was because of that man. No, not a man, a [demon].
"Well done, Naruto-kun."
That demon with no amount of humanity left in him…
"…Mukuro-sama." He mocks with a bow, a sneer clear on his bloodstained face. A boy, five years his senior, appeared from the shadows equally as bloody and as feral with that cynical smirk to match.
That wrongful demon—he is Naruto's undoubted savior.
…And let us revel in the insanity that is in our stead…
TBC
Author's Corner:
Short chapter is short... D8
This is a remake of my other story Coffin Birth†, the remake differs from the original with where Naruto gets out on his own instead without most of Mukuro's help. And, why yes, he is a cannibal. How did you know? :D /bricked
Naruto is still 10, and without the growth-spurt, I still don't know why I did that... he still does have a sensitivity to light, that's pretty much a plot device in itself, all in all its the same Naruto...only darker. Do you guys like?
Some other Narutoverse characters will make an appearance, either Gaara or Jiraiya (spelled his name wrong didn't I?) who knows?
My writing style seems to be different, is it okay? Opinions are welcomed. Ja ne~
Next Episode: One's Desire
"I'm scared." A flicker of emotion in lovely green eyes—love, fear, it went and gone. Hands caressing the slight bump across a fleshy stomach. "Don't be," the man smiles in (regret/resentment/anguish) mirth. "This is for Vongola."
Always for Vongola…