before I start i just want to say, that I am inspired by sasuke, and itachi so this is Naruto, wish belongs to Masashi Kishimoto. I am in no ways connected to naruto or the writer of the manga.
it' s a drabble of thoughts may turn into something more than that and i have a plot in mind.
please review and enjoy.
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All screwed up.
Chapter one: Dwelling on the past.
Maybe it was better to get lost in it all? Go to the bottom like a brick that sings to the bottom of the ocean, sinking deep into the sand, getting buried in it, never to be found again.
Yes. That was what he planned on doing. He planned on burying his coldest, most painful thoughts, that brought him rageful tears, that would slide down on his cheeks like liquid fire. Was it worth, to him? To his elder brother? Was it worth, the pain, everything that he, not only did to his sweet, little brother, but to himself? Killing his emotions, for the world? He had killed his family, for fucking world peace, and he expected him to understand, and forgive the world for it. The world didn't have a place for his family, so why would he give a damn about others? It was just plain stupid.
He wanted to kill. He wanted everyone to feel his hate, his pain. He didn't care anymore. About what was right, and what was wrong. No one had seen what he had that night. And it had haunted him for nearly 10 years now, driving him to insomnia, the nightmares- how he would wake up in the middle of the night, tangled in sweat and the bedsheets wrapping him up, the smell of dead, the bloodstained floor that he hadn't been able to wash off, the white walls, that had slowly turned gray from the thick layers of dust enveloping them, made him feel like he was in a mental hospital.
All that his once beloved elder brother had said to him, drove him to his stoic self. He had lost himself during the years. He had come to what others would call, the shell of the person he once was, a ghost, no heart and soul (well physically he had a heart, but he deeply doubted any feeling would be able to break through).
Their father taught them to be proud of their numerous family. To keep their head high, their back straight and never care of what others say. The latter remained in him, but he had lost his posture. As the years passed by he grew more melancholic. His once straight back had now become like a branch. Fliding in front, while he rested his hands in the warm pockets of his jeans. But to him everything was cold. The world was a cold, cruel place to live in. he didn't care about anyone really. Didn't care about the stares he was given by people. It was common knowledge that in his village, their clan was not apreciated, they were hated, thus that explaining the location of their own private corner, so to call the compound, that was way off the rest of the village, and it was nearly 20 minutes walk to the village itself.
Once their parents had died, or so he'd say, murdered, killed in cold blood, he was experiencing the tender age of eight, soon to be trauma was huge. His brother was everything to him, he not only loved and admired him, de simply adored his elder brother. But seeing everything and despite the common knowledge, he felt that he was only concieved in case that his elder brother would turn out to be a failure. Which wasn't the case. He was good, but his brother was better. He was perfect but his brother was excellent. And as his brother has once told him, he continued to remain the wall he must climb in order to overcome him, and to reach their fathers' expectations, to be acknowledged by him.
So many moments of a childhood that should have been full of good memories, so he could, on bad days recall back on, had been lost, replaced by memories of lies, of being decieved, on decieving himself by denying what he saw. Thinking, he was hallucinating, by the blood loss, fever and shock.
They were all lies. Lies of a world that never was and never in his life would be again. He had lost everything and no sweet words of compensation could ever bring that joy, those tender 8 years of his life. The happiest ones ever, and he had gotten to a certain belief that those were the only moments and will always be the only moments he was truly happy and carefree.
By now it had become a whole other story. He had shut his feelings off. Shut his brain off, he had only one desire, to avenge, and he didn't care, or so others thought of whom he had to sweep out of his way to obtain what he wanted, - no what he needed the most- to finally free his mind from that selfmade trap he himself had fallen into. He wanted himself to believe that nothing could ever hurt him again. Numbed his emotions, onyx black eyes were fathomless, empty, but the few people that had had the ocasion to close up a bit to him saw a mixture of bitterness, emptiness, hate, despise, and then again, in moments of despair the look of an innocent, scarred child who would need his mothers affection, his fathers harsh tone to put him back to track, but most of all the always caring brother. He would need a family, in those times he would wake up in a hospital, his wrists tied to the bed, and all covered up in thick layers of bandages, after those nights of despair, of angst that he had temporarly lost himself in grief and would try to end his life.
He was in the hospital in the moment he was thinking these. Again tied down, feverish, and snow white of the blood loss. His stomach was pumped, washed out, as he had tried a more effective way to kill himself, by taking sedatives and sleeping pills, as well as shooting some coke. He had no reason to live. Despite everyone's effort to keep him alive he was not worth it. They had tried to move him out of that haunted compund but he refused, each time returning to the home of his nightmares. The story of his misery seemed endless, slow and painful.
He had once read something that often made him contemplate: 'feeling is the deadliest sin, the slowest form of suicide' he murmured out loud to himself, making sure he heard it as well as thought of it. Though, he showed no emotion and seemed a heartless bastard in front of others, when he was alone, he was dwelling in self pity, allowing his emotions to slowly drive him to insanity. He had reached the point to where he didn't even find a vein in his arm to shoot himself up, to he had to look in other places. His arm was infected and he secretly wished he would somehow contact that new virus the had said completley destroyed the immune system. There would be no way out of it then and his freinds would not, no.- could not save him. Thus he never changed the needles, even tried to put in in the dumpster and shot himself up afterwards but nothing. Years had passed but nothing happened to him. It was beyond irritating.
By then he only went out to buy himself some boose, cigarretes and maybe some legal herb, due to the fact that he didn't have money to buy pot. He was broke. His best bud, or so he had entitled himself was always bringing him some money from his own low payment and some food. He would talk, he would nod and listen to the others pointles yapping ocasionally dropping a 'hm' or and 'oh' to seem the slightest interested. Truth was he hated how they all tried to save him. He was no one to save. He wanted to lead his life insivibly and that did not require anyones caring, attention, it was about being just him, and him alone in a world that did not care, they never did anyhow, so why'd they interfere now? There was no need, and it certainly, was not required, still they continued they're meaningless bickering.
His story seemed to have no end, his life seemed eternal. On the physically he was just a nineteen year-old, but on the inside, he was antient. His thoughts brought him far away from his woorld, trapped in his own, private hell and he didn't make an effort, to escape. It really was endless, reminded him of that one endless story thet his brother read to him when he was barely seven. He seemed fascinated by that, back then, but he had come to the realization that it wasn't something to be proud about, it sucked balls.
And so all his efforts to dies miserably, even his thoughts of drinking himself to death and drowning in his own vomit had been either stopped or failed just as miserably as his whole fucking life.
And so the question came... what should he do now? Find a meaning in life? Find something he was keen on doing? He did not care about life, he did not care about any other activities. He didn't need friends, he was very well on his own, much for the disbelief of others. Nobody counted. Nobody mattered.
True there were many things in life he hadn't done. Never went to parties, never fucked, jesus christ, he never ever, once in his lifetime jacked off, and he didn't even feel the need to do it. Never felt attracted to women, nor men as matter of fact, though he had, many times questioned his sexuality, but came to the conclusion that no, he didn't like men either. So that made him completley asexual.
He sweared alot, he had bad temper, quickly lost it, but he always kept swearing to himself never losing his perfect image, never losing his composure. Though he had once gotten so irritated he labeld the guy standing in front of him in the line Fat Jesus, for the mere fact that the other kept yapping at him, and not only did his mouth stink like rotting rats boiled in three weeks vomit but as he lifted his armds it smelled like, under that blue-white shirt he had a skonks farm and they were trained to fart each time the man made any movement. Air conditioning did not make any difference. And so by calling the bearded gigantic skonks Fat Jesus the other found his place, yelling a like a dozen of insults at him after which he ended up with a black eye and a very screaming cashier after he fell on her, losing his balance from the hit.
He had felt better after hitting something. That coming to mind now had made him think he should start some king of sport, like boxing, though it was a pure American-European thing and he did not want to mix his own culture with foreign ones. He contemplated on Thai Kwan Do, and tha maybe some physical effort would help him release part of the rage he kept locked deep inside, somewhere at the back of his mind, after being denied the title of that title was, after being dragged home by his so called friends. They just wouldn't want to accept the fact, that he had done his part, learned his mistake and wanted more revenge. they couldn't understand why he blamed the whole world. The phrase 'he died for wolrd peace' kept blinking in front of his eyes like a broken sign.
But right when he had come to this conclusion a very depressed, sunshine blonde entered the room, his friend, seeing how sadly the other looked at him, for the billionth time, all tied up to the hospital bed he thought of saluting him. But recoiled. No words were necessary. Nothing he'd ever say would make his blonde, energetic friend realise that he really had nothing more to live for. So he closed his eyes and numbed hsi hearing and inside his head the loud depressing music started to scream. He often used to do this. Imagine music in his head so he would push away everything, anything in the outside life. He heard his friend murmuring some words, but he couldn't bring himself to care. This was his life this was to be his life for a long long time, till God, if there was any such thing as god would punish him for being the sick bastard he was. Or was this his punishment? Having his family dead, his brother slaughtering them, above all. But why was he punished then? He was eight. He was innocent, and to the present he still hasn't taken the life of one single soul. What was the scope behind it? It was all beyond his understanding, and he started wondering if he was mentally ill or something, like his friends had often told him.
But then, intrerupting the train of his thoughts he vaguely hear his friend say
'...i'm really sorry... but they want to put you in a mental institute ..i...nothing i could say was good enough... they're putting you in tomorrow.'
Then black eyes snapped open as he started trying to extract his hand from under the tight knots.
'I am not, going into a mental hospital. You imbecile.' he hissed through gritted teeth, but still, after reading through the expression of his once bestfriend (still best friend?) he realised, there was no getting out of this.
'Great ' he said silently to himself. 'Now, you are going down. Swingin like a shit down the drain'
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