this is pure un betaed un drafted first chapter
i. Slaves Headquarters
She's model-thin, pretty pink hair, and Naruto didn't expect he'd like her anyways. She always calls him out when he arrives late to work— teasing, she calls it. It's not teasing, it's annoying— it's the settling of an uncomfortable knot in his gut because he knows, he has to interact. A big fat smile on his face and he knows she can't tell that his cheeks are dry and the sleep crud are evident on the corners of his lips, because he doesn't bother to wipe them away— because he doesn't bother to wash his face, because he doesn't care to talk to other people on the bus. His mouth is dry and it stinks of damp morning breath— it's not that he didn't wash his teeth, or didn't eat— it's because he hadn't talked for so long that it became a dry space, dry and famished. He doesn't want to talk more else he'll overeat— overeat with this talking and interacting, pretending to care. Mondays were always the worst, the worst because the hope of another free day full of sleep and empty of anyone— empty of interaction, full with his eyes glued to the television because house isn't a comforting place, house isn't a place where he can call home and feel the rush of excitement as he sleeps, because it's sleep that never comes to him and the aftermath of the buzz leaves him restless and dull till night ceases between his eyes and his mouth reeks of insomnia and sleep.
It's also the depressing kill of the hot basking sun of the Monday morning, and the slimy bogey kids with their booger-stuffed noses and their itsy-bitsy little girlfriends they held on to with their teeny-weeny skirts and tops, all that was left was a fag in their mouth and a lighter in their other hand, but then— he wasn't a cool boy like them, he would never be able to live through their promisucus heated hormonal teenage phase— because always; he was a slave to this damned society they called human. Because he's human— because it's not human, because that's a human and you're humane. And because Naruto is such a humane human— he could never be them, he was always the lowest of the low, in precarious situations; he was the first to be blamed, because he was perceived as the weakest out of all; but no one could tell how much he had already wedged their windpipes open with the legs of his desk— yes, the legs of his desk— his most only comforting sight to look at, because pretending to care that you're a consumerist and you love the ugly plant-in-pot they give out for free when you buy something from their shitty furniture companies. They break down so easily— but sometimes dopamine isn't enough to pacify his prolonged state of wakefulness— sometimes flipping through a catalogue and the occasional but reministct moment of the jingle of the phone line as they state their office max bullshit and their dumb weary desks the building he works at offers— because it's so worn down that he has to stack up two items at one corner, because his weight could easily break through that and he doesn't want to pay up for his consqueses, because he's a coward and he's too afraid to take the next step to get out of this IKEA filled furnitures and copy machines hell, because this is the last escape he has and it's slowly crumbling away— and slowly it should be.
Slowly till another eccentric entered his life, and this time it wasn't Sakura with her pretty green eyes and dumb pink hair. Dumb with her gaping cunt, he want to gut her open and slam her head several times on the copy machine till her face is copied another hundred times and burned into his memories, because he can't sleep without having to look at her face once again and worry, is she going to talk with him tomorrow, or will it be the day after? He didn't toss and turn and cry about how pathetic his life had become, a slave to the economically unequal furniture companies and to the white-collar environment, because he's too scared he'd have to leave his low-rise apartment, and out to the benches in the parks— because he know he can't live another day without his fluffy mattress he had gotten from Firm Matteress, because it costed him so much and he didn't want to pay again. Does almost-dying trigger life insurance payment? Will they come out with large greedy hands and selflessly give their money to a terminally ill patient, like Naruto was? Because he is ill, he was always ill, and he was forever to be this diseased human waste, because he's another slave in the bee hive and he thinks if he moves to another one, that he's free, that he had gained freedom and had reduced his shackles to cops knocking on his car window telling him to park his car somewhere else— because he's finally homeless and friendless?
He doesn't want that, Naruto thinks as he brushes his teeth vigorously, and he doesn't miss his sensitive gums— because that always leaves the rush of blood between his pearly whites, and they turn into a sickly green color and it tastes like vomit afterwards but it's not the end that matters, but what's in between— because the climax isn't as important as the situation, because Naruto loves the taste of blood in his mouth— because he's reminded of school bullies and the feel of desperation as he struggled to crawl aways from them, because scarred cheeks didn't mean you were ill, they meant you were weak. "Naruto?" But at least he wasn't as obvious as her, she was so obviously a phony— a fraud and to top it off she was demanding, DEMANDING! People seem to think that if they're kind to you— you're supposed to be kind back, but Naruto doesn't do it that way, because no one wants to care enough— no one wants to turn around and stare at his cheeks and begin to get into this involvement of a relationship where they have to care, because caring, caring is hard work. Sakura doesn't mind hard work, she does hard work— now that Naruto thinks about it. She has to go through motions where she's forced to fake a smile and greet the uncivil clients that come in, eying her up and down, and then all of the sudden civility seems to come naturally to them. They play their ways and they think they got her— but they always think and that's the punch line. No one tries hard enough—tries to see see what's underneath the underneath, no one titters off to save her from the endless sham she's forced to play. She's a fake— she's a hoax, she's like Naruto but she takes it up in the ass a lot more, she doesn't just have to kiss their beefy porky asses, she also has to fondle it and rub it just the right way.
Naruto is glad he doesn't have to do that bullshit, because he's finer with playing a copy-of-a-copy, and another copy. He's never out of luck in this business because there is no luck, there's just papers waiting to be copied, and filed away, and corrected, and then his boss stacks everything on the table like he expects it not to break— but he hears the creaking legs, doesn't he? Naruto isn't surprised with this situation, he never was— but now there's another guy with his boss, and he's holding more papers then Naruto can edit out in a single night, and that's saying a lot because a single night counts a lot more to an insomniac like Naruto, because when there is no sleep— you had to do something to keep your self moving— because Naruto is afraid if he doesn't do anything, he's going to stay unmoving, numb, like his left arm is right now because he's been staring at this guy for so long— or maybe he guesses it's that long, but a flicker of his eyes and he realizes it's only been a few seconds, because of the malignant eyes the man got and the dark ugly bags that reflected Naruto beneath his eyes kept him roving his eyes up and down, because this guy in a fancy tuxedo wasn't convincing Naruto.
He almost wants to yell out, stop it you nutcase, but he doesn't— instead he tries to move the numb and hard muscles of his lip up, he could almost hear them cracking as they're broken in— like the crackle of a car engine, it's not much and he can almost see the amusement light up the mans' face, and it's so cool— because Naruto had never seen such an ugly man with a handsome face, because he's ugly and a slave like Naruto. Or maybe he's overthinking it— maybe— maybe it's not really like he says— maybe he wants him to be, maybe because he's given too much attention to a person— maybe because this guy isn't him across the room, maybe he isn't his reflection, maybe he isn't like me. And— and that's perfectly fine, that's okay, Naruto is content with this anyways. It's not long till another broken pencil is in the contemporary minimalist bin.
His name is Sasuke, Naruto finds out. It's an uncommon name— like Naruto. It's always uncommon, because they're the outcasts, the ones that when revealed are out on the run— the dangerous wild ones, the born-bad types, the ones that are there for the thrill. Naruto doesn't want to be that kind of person— he doesn't want to be any person, he wants sleep, and maybe he'd feel really content once in a while.. a while.. a very very long while.
It doesn't help that now that he's flat on his back on the mattress, it's not the ghostly singing girl that tries to lullaby him to sleep— it's not the serial killer with a knife— it's Sasuke with his evil stare and sagging bags under his eyes, he's reaching towards Naruto and the floor almost creaks— enough that Naruto thinks he's sleeping and he's dreaming and this isn't real, and then Sasuke touches his arm and breaks it in many cracks, cracks till his muscles are hamstrung and he can't stitch them back together. Naruto cries and for once in a while, a very very long while, he wonders where he is once he wakes up. Wakes up.