Young, Wild, and Free
Disclaimer: I don't own Naruto. This is a free work of fiction.
Warning: Morbid content. Reader discretion is advised.
AN: This was written at the cheeky request of 'The King in White'.
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A blow came from sideways, and when it hit the side of his breast, skin rippled, stretched, and gave way like a mound of soft dirt. Then the hand went in and collided with his bones like a steel-smashing hammer, shattering them to pieces—a toy's frame. It vibrated from head to toe in the sudden lull right before the wrathful storm that would wreck his form. And it appeared like a stain through his tiny body, expanding, spreading—red against white, red against grey.
It was such a blow that could have felled an ox. He was sent flying, a wingless boy, his eyes widening, bones cracking, blood exploding in an arc from the grotesque wound. It looked soft and lovely in the dim light of the fading sun.
He crashed to the ground violently, rolling and tumbling on the stones that injured his skin with as much savagery as his mentor had. At last, his body came to a halt. He only saw the twinkling light from between the twisting limbs of ripe branches overhead. The Evening sun had gone down the low-arc of the horizon. The sky was bleeding. He, too, was bleeding. There was a profusion of blood from the gaping hole in his breast. He was dying.
A numbing sensation was spreading in his limbs, and he did not even have the strength in him to move his hand and press it over the ugly wound. The evening air was cool. Sounds of a girl's screams were undulating upon the sluggish air, muffled through the trees—a creaky boat floating on the dull combers of a lonely sea.
Naruto had got her in his clutches. Slowly, he turned his head and observed ridges in the twisting spine push forth a string of bones from Naruto's back. His jaws had clamped down on her cheek. Bloody teeth sank into the blushing, young skin there, tearing it away, leaving flesh without a mask. And a scream swelled in her throat and went through the sky; his heart . . . and body shuddered in protest of the coming death.
Claws came out and turned inwards at the ends like good hooks. They went into her guts and soft breast without any swells. All was laid bare in his ravenous pursuit to consume her—all of her. Her final scream came out as a gurgling plea and blood poured out of her lips as though her own blood's stench had set her to retching. And when the wispy, teeth-filled snout burrowed into her breast, her eyes widened, and she let out her final croak.
A choking stench of burning flesh floated to him, but it was buried under the sweet smell of wet earth. The ground underneath him was getting wetter, and cool rain dotted his face, quivering off his cheeks, diluting the glob of blood underneath his nose. It turned pink and snaked down his white throat as if sacred chords being untied by plump little hands.
He could not feel the pain as rain hit the fleshy-bottom of the gaping black-hole there. It just sent a sudden chill through his heart. It was so rattled by this new change: he was whole no longer, breathing heavy and laborious breaths that pressed his body into relinquishing the last of its strength to the winds.
Rain filled the deep void in his breast: pink and red sloshed over and went down his musky clothes. He was soaked to the bones. Rain hit his skin . . . and he felt nothing now. Light was fading, and he barely saw jagged teeth descend upon his throat to suck him dry. Wispy fur clung to his flushed cheek, tingling his skin, and then he took a mouthful away from his neck; one side of it was gone.
He wanted to scream, but the numbness of death was so strong. He was a feeble beast of burthen now, struggling to lift the heavy weight of his airy body that was mired down deep into the formless sludge of a forlorn and desolate landscape. It was being hung between the wavering veils of life and death. Sweet was the scent of life and heavy was the smell of death.
Gone were the images of bony hands and their pretty machinations and the gauzy tricks of ice. Chakra bled out of his body. There was such thirst for the flesh, a quiver of hungry lips, and a rattle of chattering, blood-stained teeth finding their mark. His skin was a map, a design born of his savagery.
His skin was much torn, and when the brute backed away, he had stripped the flesh there to the bone; he gulped it eagerly and sniffed the plump swells on his arms. He was still just a boy. Naruto's red chakra had driven this man beyond the brink of insanity. He was a man no longer. He had become a beast—a young, wild, and free animal. His executioner's blade was lying in the mud, a forgotten toy.
He felt something stir in him, and his heart quickened slightly in protest, but then it buckled under the weight of its nameless form. A sigh came from his throat, and his eyes saw the final veil fall down between him and beyond. He was gone, lying still and supine in the arms of his tormentor; his arms that had once sheltered him, now had driven his young spirit out of his body. There was such violence in the way his coarse hands moved, in the way they ripped him open—grasping flesh, feeling flesh.
He had laid him to waste, and he suffered such brutality in every part that his small body was rent asunder. Once he had had his fill, he left a shapeless body behind. His face was gone. His hair had fallen loose over his broken shoulders . . . there was nothing left there to call him a boy. He was just something he had left behind in his moments of insanity—an evil memory, a frail moment of weakness . . .
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The End