A different idea of mine that I've been working on for a while. As the summary says, it's a SI OC story. Though this is an original idea, and something, like I said, that I've been working on for quite a while, I recently discovered Silver Queen's Dreaming of Sunshine and seeing her success, I finally worked up the courage to post this. Enjoy.

Disclaimer: OCs are mine. Plot is mine. Naruto characters…are not. Kishimoto's not ready to relinquish them yet.

Posted: 6/12/15

Last Edited: 6/20/15

It trickled down my cheek, warm and thick and wet. Sticky. I panted, my limbs trembling with adrenaline and my thoughts trembling with them. My hands were covered with the same substance on my face, and I wiped them on my pants almost subconsciously, trying to cleanse them of my sin.

The only sounds in the silence of the dark alley were my own harsh gasps for breath and a chorus of groans or moans or wails of dying men accompanying my solo.

There were three of them, and their heartbeats were slowing because of me.

I numbly tucked my grandmother's paintbrush into my backpack. It was a wonder I hadn't snapped it within my tight grip. I bent down next to one of the men, his crazed eyes almost scaring me away as I felt for his pulse on his neck before realizing the gash there prevented me from doing so. His breath caught—and never returned. I gripped his wrist, finding not a single pulse of life underneath my thumb, and quickly dropped the hairy, lifeless arm. Fearfully, I checked the two others in much the same fashion, and understood them all to be dead. Gone.

I didn't dare look back. Panic clenching my throat tight, I strode out of the alley on silent footsteps, scurrying through the shadows and desperately trying to escape the deed I'd done.

I'd killed them because they'd gone after me. They'd taken me and a couple others in the dark of the night, and none of us had been able to scream with rough hands slapped over our mouths. We'd all been girls, and I understood it to be attempted rape in the back of my mind, where all-consuming panic had not taken control yet.

But then they'd ripped my backpack off my shoulders and found my grandmother's paintbrush. Fiery fury zipped through my chest as they admired the slim wooden brush in their large, grubby hands. I bit the hand holding me back as hard as I could, and felt surprise as copper touched my tongue.

The man had yelped, dropping me, and I'd pumped my legs and charged at him, leaping into the air for a kick at his face. He'd released the girl he was holding, and she ran immediately while I snatched the paintbrush from his looser grip before dropping to the ground for my backpack he'd unwillingly relinquished as well. My training in the Academy and at home, drilled into me until reactions became instinctive, took over—I allowed it.

At that point, both of them ganged up on me, but with my backpack in my hands, I dug my hand into it, the other still clinging onto the paintbrush, and slashed backwards as deep as I could with the first kunai my fingers brushed against. One of them had let out a roar, and the other, gripping my upper body, had punched me in the back of the head. I'd almost blacked out, and I probably could have if adrenaline hadn't been running its course and forcefully telling me stay alive, stay alive, stay alive. My arm jerked backwards again as I flipped the kunai in my hand into a reverse grip and met resistance as well as a spatter of something wet and warm.

I was free—but the other girl wasn't. She'd looked at me desperately, stringy blonde hair tangled into the third man's hand. Still shaking with adrenaline, I rushed at him, and he let her go—but I wasn't done yet. I released my weapon at the man's neck and missed, gouging his shoulder. He fell to his knees in pain, grabbing me at the same time and likely leaving bruises, but this only gave me an advantage as I fiercely yanked the kunai out before stabbing at his neck again, slicing through skin, muscle, tendon. Vital blood vessels. The girl escaped, and I wriggled myself free, letting him slump to the ground as I dashed to my backpack. Victory—I felt pride flood my body as well as relief in response to having won.

And then I'd realized what I'd done.

The pride turned sickly.

As the adrenaline died down, I slipped into another alley and fell to my knees, gasping. A cold trickle of liquid slid down my face and, startled, I realized I was crying. I curled my fingers against the dirty concrete, hands still tangled with the ripped straps of my backpack, and stared with a morbid fascination at the bloodstains on my hands—they were already drying.

The mental images of the bodies, sprawled on the alley floor, caused another tremor to run through my body, and I dry-heaved, feeling horror rush through me. This was murder.

I'd just murdered three men.

I bent my head down and wiped my mouth of the strands of saliva dripping down my chin. My head hurt. My arms shook. My eyesight blurred. I was at the end of the proverbial rope as I sobbed into my stringy sleeve. It was frayed and ripped beyond recognition of its original design, even though I'd only gotten it three weeks ago. Stolen, that is.

My head spinning, I crawled further into the dark alleyway. My limbs shook and I tumbled hard into the concrete, smacking my cheek into the rough, cold concrete and barely registering the accompanying sting of pain flaring up on my cheek. I couldn't make it any further. I was on the verge of giving up. And though giving up meant dying, I wanted to die.

So I gave up.

It's a quick intro to everything that comes later on. Please leave a review, and have a great day!

~poeticness-at-its-finest