Disclaimer: I own nothing. If Naruto belonged to me, it would be called Sasuke... and there would be much nakedness. All in all, not fit for young children. : D
Hi all,
This is my first posted fic and I hope you enjoy it! Constructive criticism is always welcome. : )
The man examines his new room efficiently. His blood-red eyes dart this way and that, noting all the windows and doorways, watching for any sign of movement. Pulling out a kunai, the dark haired man quickly searches the room. Everything about him is professional and practiced. Finding nothing amiss, he places his overnight bag gently on a chair tucked into a desk. He pulls off his shirt, hanging it off of the back of the chair, and moves towards the window.
The street below is filled with people strolling aimlessly from one shop to the next. Shoving the window open, the man leans against the sill and takes a long, deep breath. His pale white skin glows slightly in the darkening atmosphere; the rise and fall of his chest marked by the shadows that elongate and retract across his torso. The sky is still bright, but the light is rapidly fading. Already, mosquitoes fly about in search of blood, their buzzing is drowned out by the hushed atmosphere of the town below. He is reminded of a distant village. Quiet murmurs... gentle laughter... the barking of a dog in the distance.
The smell of ramen.
He glances down again. His gaze is caught by a little girl, running full speed down the street. She is calling to a little boy with his hands in his pockets, who ignores her and continues walking.
His eyes tighten. His posture stiffens.
It was a reminder.
His purpose.
He shuts the window with a click. Padding his way, almost silently, across the room, he opens his bag and withdraws an envelope. The dark eyes memorize the contents of the note and the face in the photograph, slowly pulling out a matchbook. He walks to the bathroom and drops the burning paper into the sink, staring fixedly as the paper slowly turns to ash. Returning to the main room, the man pulls out weapons from a pouch on the side of his bag, carefully setting them on the desk beside him. The katana removed from his back is placed amongst the other weapons; his clothing efficiently and meticulously replaced with a dark and form fitting outfit, blending almost entirely into the darkened room.
All the weapons on the desk are slipped into a small pouch, which he then ties tightly around his right thigh. The long black blade is raised above his head and lowered over his shoulder, eventually settling securely across his chest. Double checking his belongings, the raven haired man walks towards the window again. He crawls over the sill and shuts the window behind him, once again remarking silently on the click it makes. He makes his way swiftly across the rooftops, moving building to building until he arrives at his destination.
There. Across the empty street. The address. The target.
Activating his sharingan, he peers through the darkened windows. There is a man sleeping in a large bed on the second floor, each of his arms wound tightly around a sleeping prostitute.
Tch.
The man makes his way down the side of the building, a shadow across the badly lit street. He stops at the front door, gently probing with his chakra for any hidden traps. Satisfied, he easily picks the lock, glancing around before entering the quiet house.
He makes his way through the sleeping house, up the creaky stairs and to the second floor. He gently pushes open the door of the bedroom and steps inside.
Tch. What a waste of time.
The room smells of sex and sweat. He examines the three people in the bed closely. The man is definitely the one from the photograph. The obviously drunken wretch snores loudly into the chest of the blond haired, scantily clad woman at his side, whom is also soundly asleep. His eyes fall on the last girl. Her eyes are closed, but her eyes are clearly moving beneath their lids. She whimpers quietly, a frown wrinkling her forehead and the muscles in her arms tighten. She whimpers again, a little louder, then relaxes. But it isn't the whimpers that attract his attention.
Her hair. It's pink.
The same pink as hers.
He watches her for another moment, listening to the quiet sound of her breathing. His chest tightens painfully as he watches her sleeping figure. He closes his eyes for a moment, allowing himself to remember the feel over her hands, the touch of her skin, the sound of her voice. Sasuke-kun!
The eyelids peel back to reveal angry, unforgiving eyes. He stalks towards the bed suddenly a feline stalking its prey. He noiselessly steps onto the grotesquely oversized bed, his hands forming a jutsu to temporarily paralyze all three of the sleeping bodies. Ignoring the pink haired girl to his right, the man pulls out a kunai and drags it harshly across the throat of his unsuspecting target, immediately eliciting a river of blood. The sleeping man's eyes fly open in shock and dart around the room, falling on the dark haired intruder standing above him.
He is met with a carnivorous smile.
This is what he enjoys; the last few seconds before the struggling ends. He watches silently as the man's panic overtakes him, as he tries unsuccessfully to move his hands to his throat. Blood is spilling all over his chest, onto the silken sheets, darkening them with its colour. The smell of rust and salt, of blood fills the air. He watches as the man's eyes roll back, until the breathing stops and his chest moves no more.
The intruder steps back down from the bed and wipes the bloody kunai in his hand on the sheets of the bed. Putting the weapon away, he moves towards the window. It would be easier to get back to the roof from here. He glances back at the bed, eyes drawn again to the pink hair.
Sakura.
The crushing weight of what he has done, the blood on his hands all strike him in an instant. A wave of nausea hits him like a brick, and a sudden hot flash rolls over him eliciting an unusual amount of sweat from him. His eyes itch and his nose tingles. Desperately, he rips his eyes away from the sleeping girl and makes his way out the window. He runs rapidly across the rooftops, heading for the edge of the village. His internal compass leads him to a forest on the outskirts of the now sleeping town. An hour later, he reaches the center of it and falls against the trunk of tree he's standing in.
The stricken man is pouring sweat and panting harshly. He thinks again of the pink haired girl.
Pink hair. Like Sakura's.
And he is yelling. The wordless roar pouring out of his body sounds like that of a wounded animal. All the pain he's kept inside, all the words he's never spoken rush out of his open mouth into the sleeping forest. It's the sound of ultimate suffering. The sound of a heart that has been ripped into shreds so small, that not even the deftest seamstress can sew it back together.
He remembers all the towns he's been to. All the people he's killed.
All the prostitutes.
The girl's he picked were nothing but the scum of the Earth. Their bodies were worth nothing to him, but he always had a reason for choosing them. This one had her wide, expressive green eyes. This one's voice sounded the same. That one's hair was pink...
He'd always had a reason for choosing them. But it had never been the same.
"They're not you." he whispers to the hushed forest. "They're not you and they never will be."
They had reminded him of what he'd lost, the chances that had passed him by... of what he'd given up to achieve his goals and get to where he wanted to be. Sakura. Sakura. Sakura. Would you still want me?
He curls up, chanting the same name over and over in his mind. Sakura. Sakura. Sakura.
He puts his face in his hands and cries until he blacks out.
He blacks out and welcomes the darkness.