This is way different from what I usually do (Harry Potter instead of Naruto), so I need some opinions on it. I haven't seen this idea before. In most, Harry is beaten, raped, starved, etc.; but this one shows something I think is way worse. This is just my opinion though, please tell me what you think!
All he wanted was for people, no…someone, anyone, to see him. All he needed was someone to see him. When he walked through the house, while at school, or walking along the park road, nobody saw him. Their eyes simply slid away to the side. At school, the teachers never called his name for roll, he didn't even think he was enrolled there, and didn't take up any of his work. He was forced to teach himself all of the lessons they were learning because the teacher wouldn't answer any of his questions. At the house it was the same, eyes slid away from him whenever he was near. It hurt him deeply. He could take being yelled at, hit or spit on; because it meant that they could see him. For them to do those things, they would have to acknowledge his existence. But no, they all merely ignored him. This was his life for as long as he could remember, and he didn't ever expect it to change. And it hurt him, deep in side.
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He awoke with the sun like any other day. The warm light caressed his face and arms where it filtered through the slits of his cupboard. 'Not mine, nothing is mine,' he quietly chastised himself. He laid there, savoring the feeling of the daylight on his skin, for so long that he could see the light move off of him as the sun moved away from the front windows. He loved to watch time pass by, to watch things grow and die, be born and shrivel with age. He could only practice this love in the garden; carefully tending to the shoots, watching them grow, and seeing then fall into winter's cold embrace.
Time never seemed to effect him. Oh, he could tell he was growing; his hair was long, his stolen clothes were no longer long enough for him, and he had become stronger by a miniscule amount, but his mind never changed. Whenever he thought he was learning some new thing, something deep in his mind would click and he knew the material. It wasn't like he didn't know it and then he suddenly did, no it was as if he had already learned the material and he only needed to review it. Even more, every sight and sound from his earliest memories were carefully documented into his mind. The books he had read called it a "photographic memory", he just called it annoying. Even with his perfect memory, he couldn't remember a single time that his "family" even saw him, ever cared.
Sighing, he got up from the bed squished into the space under the stairs. He shook any collected dust from his hair and brushed it behind his ears before opening the cupboard door. It swung open silently, alerting none to his presence; not that anyone would notice anyway. Without a sound, he made his way out of the hallway and up the stairs. His destination was the only upstairs room he regularly visited; the bathroom. The other rooms, the visible people's personal rooms, he almost never entered. The last time he had was when he was six. He had gotten so tired of their silent refusal to acknowledge him that he trashed the entire house while they were out. He did it just to see their reactions, their anger, but it hadn't worked. When they returned, they reported the incident with the police and cleaned up, going on with their lives. He had never tried anything remotely like that again. It hurt way too much.
He felt his heart tighten so much that it became painful. With a jerk, he let go of the bathroom door handle and clutched at his chest. The muscle skipped a beat before returning to its normal rhythm. Taking deep breaths, he willed the pain away; shoving it deep down into his soul. It wasn't often that he felt physical pain, emotional was far more common, but whatever form it took, he could push pain far down where it could be ignored.
Once he finished in the bathroom, he walked down to the kitchen. He was surprised to see that the room was filled with half open presents, but nobody was in the room. Then he remembered the date; Dudley's birthday was today. He knew he should be happy, no one was around to ignore him, but without anyone else there, the house felt as empty as his soul. After making himself something to eat, he settled with a book of Petunia's on the couch and recorded the book in his memory. It would be a while before something came along and filled the empty space. He didn't even know if he meant the house or his soul.