It was raining, or was it? There was liquid on the ground, but it could be water, could be blood, could be something else. It was of little importance in the grand scheme of things. A snort followed that thought, or perhaps it was more of a gurgle? Blood dripped from his mouth with the motion in any case.
The Grand Scheme? That was a joke if there ever was one, almost as bad a civil rights. Was there a point to life? Yes, there had to be one. He looked out the alley he was laying in. Even at this hour there were people moving to and fro, living their lives with purpose and meaning. So there was a point to life, but like so much else it was to be observed and never touched. Was there a point to his life? He didn't have an answer for that.
It was time to move, a bone that had was broken had already reset. Which bone he didn't know, didn't care. Pain had become almost a comfort, but he never really experienced it honestly, not anymore anyway. He had learned it early, and he sometimes wondered if he even knew what it was like not to hurt? He could remember what it felt like, he knew what level of pain he was experiencing, could even respond correctly to the location of it. If his leg hurt in a certain way the bone was broken requiring a certain change to running style, what maneuvers could be completed and such were different from simply a sprained ankle and entirely different from a dislocated shoulder.
But for all that he had stopped experiencing it. It happened, but it happened somewhere outside of him, or perhaps he was no longer himself? Was that it? This body he experienced sometimes had a life, had a purpose, but he had left it behind and only occasionally visited. He turned down another ally, the one he had intended to walk down was dangerous for now.
Oh, he was walking, a moment was spared to wonder for how long before it too was discarded as irrelevant. When he started walking was unimportant, as was essentially his destination. Keeping alive was important. Staying safe long enough to heal, to fight back enough that he would survive to heal, to get food now and then, and to an extent sleep, these were important.
What was he thinking about again? Oh yes, plans. Big grand things that people always seemed to strive for, and at least in his opinion, almost always failed to achieve. Amusing? He snorted again to see if it invoked the feelings he had heard marked funny things. He didn't feel any different, but noted that no blood leaked out so his lungs must be getting better now.
So what was his grand plan? Or at least the plan for the body he followed around. Living was important of course, had to be, because otherwise it ended and no plans could be achieved, or even attempted. Or was the ending of the story all that mattered? Was there a specific end that he should be striving for?
A noise rang out, a child wailed into the night. Naruto stopped, looked up at the apartment that the sound originated from. Dark shapes flew out the window, landing on the fire escape, and used them for their intended purpose, to escape. Or perhaps there has to be a fire for the escape to meet the intended purpose? As he continued walking away from the burglary, probably murder, time was spent debating between whether or not the "fire" was an integral part of the use for a "fire escape". Moments later a slight depression hit as even those inanimate objects had a Grand Scheme, muddled though it may be, and yet here was this mass of flesh that had none.
Or did he? He quickly remembered that he had been debating on what his was. Well there was time enough for that now, and few enough distractions for his shambling mind to focus now that he was slumped about halve way up an abandoned building on, ironically enough, the fire escape. A point? For him? Where to start? Well what important had happened in his life? That was a good place to start he supposed.
Nothing came to mind. Huh, hard to classify important when most of what you "felt" was generally described as apathy. Then what had happened recently? That child got his attention, so perhaps that was worth thinking on. The crying had been interesting and little else, but if he really thought about it had annoyed him too. Or was it that he had identified that the child would soon learn the same lesson he did about crying. Noise from below, others had found him and were climbing up to reach him as angry and drunk as always. Crying solved nothing. Originally it was meant to call attention to something, usually a child, or human in general he mentally corrected, that was in distress. For him though, any attention was bad.
He jumped off the fire escape and was running. Or had done so a while ago, once again these facts were mostly irrelevant. That he was still being chased and that his ankle had been rolled were both also of little importance seeing as they were being handled by the body and his mind was free to roam. That he must have been doing something for quite a while took more time to think through then these preceding thoughts, as the sun was now about halve visible on the horizon.
He had noticed that when he was cornered, by adults or other children it mattered not, that cry would not shorten the amount of time spent till they were done beating on him. In many cases the extra noise would bring extra tormentors. After a while he had decided to try other facial expressions and mannerisms, see if any of those worked. His shoulder hit one of the men chasing him. Apparently his rolled ankle slowed him down enough that they would have caught up shortly, so he had switched to attacking them. Do enough damage and they would leave him alone for the time being.
He had switched through many different mannerisms. Acting cute made some feel guilt sooner rather than later and leave, though for most it simply infuriated them more. Got one of them to trip on their companion he had floored with his shoulder. Acting brave did even less. A sense of bravado with either heroic words or violent swears and curses seldom lent to a lessoned sentence. A fist clipped his arm. That was where he learned that fighting back worked well though.
Hey! Now that he thought about it he had been in the middle of becoming detached when he had first discovered that smiling really pissed them off. He was on the ground now apparently. Since nothing besides an even fight would make them stop, he realized that he got a small sense of pleasure in making them angry. Oh, he was losing this fight badly, idly wondered for a moment or two if he had not had enough time to heal between encounters. It was around his birthday after all. Perhaps that was something he could make as his Grand Scheme. He was held by two of them now, a third approaching with fist cocked back. But was it alright to simply make one up? Why of course, it had to be! Everyone else seemed to have one, and such stupid reasons to make them anyway. He was decided, looking up with his shining grin to meet the fist face on. His look must have startled that man because he hesitated.
Silly mistake, he took a moment to watch as positions reversed and the body he hung around inflicted more damage then it took.
Yes, that would do nicely, he would survive to make others suffer. Not the overt kind of suffering that the physical abuse used to bring to him, a more sinister kind. The kind he saw in people's eyes every time they saw him. The kind he saw when his smile refused to leave his face, even as blood flowed and fists rained down on it. In fact he recalled that same diffuse suffering done by children doing … what was it called? Pranks he believed. He kept his same smile as his attackers left off, both sides withdrawing from separate ends of the alley. Now he had something to really spend time thinking on, but where could he get passable glue? He already knew where to get the rotten vegetables after all.
AN: This story is a look into Naruto's mind. His view of himself shifts between first and third person. He doesn't really know what he is in this. It is literally supposed to be a single train of thought. I am sure you all have experience thinking about something, then stopping to realize a few minutes ago you were thinking on something else entirely. This is somewhat of an exaggeration on that. What would a listless and damaged mind think about? How would that flow/look? My answer is here.
Looked for stories to read, opened a few in tabs, then decided they were probably not worth reading. Then got curious to see if I could force a story with no inspiration, and what do you know, I can. Spent at most an hour and a halve making this. I would usually try to redo this story, and then redo it again, but as it is just an experiment to see if I can sit down and faceroll a story, I figure that is not needed. So enjoy my brand of insta crazy. =p
Arch Minion