I know I really should be continuing my other fics, but this idea came into my mind, so I wrote it, and I hope you like it! :)

"Sticks and stones may break my bones, but names will never hurt me."

That same rhyme; he's heard of it countless number of times, from many people, people who wouldn't understand the pain of people like him, people who naively believe that no one gets hurt from words, not much anyways, people who were loved. No, there was no one like him.

'Murderer', 'killer', 'monster', 'demon', these were just some amongst many. He's been called by these since he could remember and he couldn't for the life of him understand why he was being shunned, why everyone seemed to hate him to the core, why he was the village pariah. What was it that he did that was so unforgivable for everyone to treat him like this? And no matter how much he racked his brains, he couldn't recall a single thing.

He didn't have anyone to care for him, no one to teach him anything, no one to tell him what to do, what not to do, no one to protect him, and no one to love him. He grew up learning from the people around him, picking up words from conversations he overhears, actions from things he see, behaviors from people he witnesses and experiences, and he once almost believed that it was normal to be called by those names, normal to be treated that way, normal to be beaten up at least once a week, that his life was normal. That was the happiest part of his life thus far, when he was in blissful ignorance, when he stupidly believed that he was perfectly normal, as what he didn't know couldn't hurt him. He realizes bitterly afterwards that none of it was normal at all, when he witnesses that he was the only one being treated this way, that others were treated far better, and that he realizes that it was a bad thing. He grew to believe that he was in the blame, since everyone seemed to believe so, how could he not? When everyone around him was telling him the same thing, over and over, how could he still stand firm his ground, when he, ever since he could remember, was being told not to? He grew up believing that he was what they told him he was; a monster, a killer, a murderer.

He continues on his day, getting scornful glares wherever he went. And then he hears that rhyme again: "Sticks and stones may break my bones, but words will never hurt me." It was from a group of kids, playing together. He wants so badly to join in, being his nature of a kid, but he had learnt long ago that hatred from the people passes on to their kids, and if he tries to join, not only will all playing cease, their parents would come after him. He had learnt it the hard way.

One of the earliest memories he can remember, is being beaten up by a gang of parents. From what he could remember, he was trying to join in playing with a group of children, but when he went up to them, all playing stopped. He could still remember the terrified looks on their faces, and even though no one ever told him, he knew they weren't a good thing to have. Before he could do anything, the children start screaming and adults rushed in, and before he knew it, he was being beaten up to a bloody pulp, all the while being cursed at with words he doesn't even want to fathom.

He gazes wistfully at the children playing, and can't help but to think of the rhyme untrue. For if it was to be true, why would his chest hurt so much whenever they call him those names? His wounds from beatings heal over time, but why does his heart still hurt after all this time then?

As he continues on his way, with no destination in mind and nowhere to go, he hears whispers of, "I wish someone would just get rid of him already."

And he wishes for the same thing. He often wonders why they haven't killed him already, why was he still alive when he was obviously better off dead? Because he suffers so much every day, wandering around with no purpose, getting beaten up, hearing all those names he loathes with all his being. He once wondered about whether he should just disappear, like how everyone wanted him to, but he couldn't do it. He couldn't bring himself to end his own measly, pitiful, small life, and the part of him that wanted to hang on. Despite everything, he still hoped.

He hates it. He hates the names he was called, he hates the way everyone seems to look at him, he hates the villagers, he hates his situation, he hates not knowing why, he hates how helpless he is, he hates his life, and he hates that rhyme that he believes couldn't be more untrue. But most of all, he hates how he still is hoping, and he hates how he couldn't really bring himself to hate anything or anyone more than he hates himself for still hoping that someday someone would accept him.

Night comes, and here he was again, being chased down the streets of Konoha, the parts of the village that were mostly avoided, and he knows what was going to happen. It was always the same thing, run, get chased, get caught, beaten up, and then left alone to suffer. Then it was repeated again when some other people needed to release their hatred. Some luckier days, people would just ignore him, leave him alone; other unluckier ones, people acted on their contempt. He knew that it was useless to run, that he would get caught anyways, but it was the one thing he could do; to not give up. He runs and he runs, and he could feel his stamina depleting until he couldn't run anymore, so he collapses to the ground in pure exhaustion. He backs away as much as he could, but he hits dead end, useless effort. He squeezes both eyes shut, praying that it would pass quickly, trying to think of something; anything; to keep him distracted enough to feel less pain. Tears slipped from his eyes as the assaults continue and he thinks over and over again, "Please make it stop…"

Then he hears those things again:

"Monster!"

"Demon!"

"I hate you!"

"You're disgusting!"

"Why are you even still alive?!"

"Killer!"

"You deserve to die!"

And he believes those words, because there was never anyone to tell him that it wasn't true, because there was never anyone to tell him not to trust anyone and everyone. He never tries to escape anymore. He tried getting help once; the result was being chased away. There was never anyone to help him stand back up once he fell, and so he continued falling deeper and deeper into the belief that he deserved it, that everything was his fault. His heart breaks a little more inside every time, and there was never anyone by his side to put the pieces back together and mend the cracks, to heal his heart.

After a while, the assaults stop, and the people leave. He sighs as he leaned back into the dirty wall and floor stained with dirt, grime, and his blood. He continues sobbing, all the while thinking over and over again, "Why me?" He blacks out with the same thought swirling in his mind.

The next day comes, and he wakes up feeling sore all over, and he notices, just like always, all his injuries are gone. This was the one thing he was thankful for in his pitiful life. And he wonders why couldn't this thing heal his heart too? What hurts more than all the beatings he received on his physical body, were the harsh blows to his heart, the names that would forever stick to him wherever he went.

"Sticks and stones may break my bones," he chuckles with despair, "but names will never hurt me…" he whispers to himself, and how he wishes for it to be true, because then, he was sure he wouldn't suffer nearly as much as he did. Sometimes, he wonders if one day, if the words attacked his heart enough, his heart would finally crack, break and stop, and he would disappear, just like what everyone wants, including himself. And then, finally, would he stop hurting?

THE END.

How was it? :D Leave a review to tell me what you think! ^^

EDIT: The story is still the same, I just edited a bit, and added a bit in. :)