Death row.

I never thought I'd get here. I am Neji Hyuuga. Fourteen years old and I'm already losing my head. This is a last request. Pull this out of your pocket, scan these first lines. I want you to understand me. Know who you're killing. I never did.

(It has been folded over many times.)

Are you ashamed? How do you feel, hiding behind that black mask? Are you scared to pull the string of death? Will you feel frightened of me? Does the knowledge of what I've done scare you? Surely, it must, otherwise you won't let that blade SLICE! off my neck. And if you don't, you won't even read this. Hopes are pointless. I can see your future. Will you feel a twinge of regret somewhere in that endless gut? I hope so.

("You are more tragic than you think you are.")

You and I aren't so different. I've been killing since I was five years old. I threw a stone, and it hit a bird. I ran over to check if it was still alive, but its little brown chest was bleeding, most certainly not breathing. My father told me not to cry. He said that it got easier the more times you did it. I wouldn't stop sobbing, not until that night was done.

(His breath smells of onions and ketchup.)

I was enrolled in the Academy the next day. They told me to kill a dog the week after that. We didn't use stones, you see. Knives were our weapons of choice. You kill a lot faster with those. I don't even know why I'm explaining this to you. You know what I'm talking about. You went through the same thing, didn't you? Or did you get a choice? The Sand Village isn't starving for young shinobi, is it?

(The blade plummets down. Rejoice.)

You sick fuck. You lose a piece of yourself every time you kill. I bet you didn't know that, and neither do your friends. I bet that you're reading this aloud to them, chuckling at each line, laughing at every chunk of myself I reveal. I hope someday that your head is under this guillotine. Or your wife gets a knife in her back while she's stealing your family bread to eat. Slaughter doesn't earn much for the family; take it from me. I hope your children go out there on the front line, and they see my teammates' faces flashing before their eyes as their necks snap. You won't die, though. You will watch it all and keep slicing the heads like you slice carrots for your dinner. I will laugh at you, gleefully, even maliciously. I'm going to wail when you join me in death. You can only punish me when you are near me.

(A clap on the back. A service to the world.)

Am I any better than you? Yes, I am confident that I am. This is all that I have ever known. Killing is my second nature. When we gassed your city, I was only following orders. There were others, but no names will be disclosed. We follow blindly, though I see all. Even the ass that captured me. Perhaps, somewhere, I chose to be caught. Maybe this is my penance. It is the simple and ultimate redemption for one such as me. My hands are bloodier than yours, but I will forever hate you more for spilling my blood, quelling my sobs.

(The paper is stained.)

I have nightmares, too, you know. I roll in my sleep. I cry out. I killed my cousin. It was an accident. She was reluctant. She couldn't just lose herself to the killing. She was gentle, disgustingly shy. She couldn't hit me, and when she did, I only laughed. Her death didn't shock me. In fact, I felt a beat of satisfaction. I could defeat the enemy. I could defeat someone with the same lineage as me. Someone deemed superior by simple caste. My teammates were below me. They knew. My sensei could teach me nothing. I am perfect. A killing machine. The lever is switched on by my leaders, and then I kill, kill, kill.

("You are only a child. Don't act like one.")

And now you are killing me. I hear your plodding footsteps; the leather is dragging on the gritty sand floor. My skin is crawling. I reach up to put a hand through my hair, but it is all gone, littering the floor around my feet. Your friend should be murdered, too. I am going to be humiliated, so humiliated. I am naked and cold and laying on this pitiful sand floor. I am hairless as a newborn rat. You are coming and you will touch me, purr to me, and murmur that it will be alright. Everything is forgiven when you're dead. I want to believe you, because I hate you. And also because despite everything I've said, you're just like me.

("We are hypocrisy.")
("No, you are dead.")

I see your meaty legs turning the corner. I smell the fear on your breath. I am shivering. You shake the bars. Giggle to yourself. I can't see your face. Can you? The chains clatter and moan as you drop them to the floor. The door creaks open. Your nostrils are flaring. I am waning. One last line, one last line! I am only-you are reaching down keep writing-but I am forever.

Neji Hyuuga, 14

Author's Notes: This is a quick piece I did to get a quick break from working on my multi-chapter fic. I was suddenly struck with the fact that yes, the world of Naruto is essentially built around child soldiers. Neji goes through the reality of their horrors. I hope that this made you think, and I hope that you enjoyed it, as well. Thank you for reading. (: