Not a Teenager
A/N: Don't own Naruto. This is a drabble. Sucky, I know. Please read, review, and most importantly--enjoy.
Sometimes, Sakura will play pretend. She will pretend she is a normal girl, and that her mother loves her like a normal girl, and that her father avoids her like she is a normal girl. Sometimes she will try to be stubborn and will argue with her parents, and they wince at her gloved fists and unconcealed sword and refuse to argue back.
Sometimes, Sakura imagines conversing with her mother about her day.
"I walked up a tree today, mother."
"That's nice, dear. Did your teacher congratulate you?"
"I don't remember."
Sometimes Sakura will come home with blood beneath her fingernails. Her father will avoid looking in her direction, discussing his business at the shop. Her mother will sit, wan and withdrawn, trying to treat her not-teenage daughter like a real teenage one. Sakura will pick at the checkered table cloth and the burnt rice, and try to play along.
"I learned how to slice a man's throat effectively today, mother."
"That's nice, dear."
Sakura is out for ramen with Ino when her hands start to shake, and she drops her chopsticks. Ino stops mid sentence and watches Sakura with wary, knowing eyes. Sakura glances around the stand to see if anyone else notices, but everyone is too intent on their own meals. Slowly, tenderly, she picks up her own chopsticks and resumes eating.
The next time Ino and Sakura are out for tea, Ino drops her cup, shattering it all over the splintered wood floor. Silently they both pick up the pieces with shaking hands.
"My best friend almost killed me today, mother."
"That's nice, dear."
In the field Sakura is a machine. She is cold, silent, efficient. She pretends like she is destroying dummies, over after the other, and not human lives. They are not human. Not human.
Human. Sakura is thirteen and human and not a teenager but she is a ninja, a proud ninja and she will kill a countless number of ninja before she dies at the hand of another like herself. She wonders if she makes thirty, will she be killing children like herself, or will they kill her?
"She died in my arms today, mother. I couldn't save her."
"That's nice."
Sakura likes to stand outside toy shops. She likes to watch the children giggle and shout to their parents, and she likes to watch the parent's stare at their children with irritation and adoration. She will glance down at her kunai, then at the wooden swords stacked together by the entrance. Her kunai feels cold and sharp against her thigh, and sometimes she imagines it is painted red.
"I killed two men today, mother."
"...."
Every night Sakura goes home and washes the blood speckled across her cheeks. She makes a face in the mirror and poses, flexing her muscles and trying different hairstyles. Sometimes she even likes to experiment with makeup. When she comes out, she greets her mother mildly, who smiles a strained not-motherly smile. Sakura goes to her room. She climbs into her small bed with pink sheets. She stares at the ceiling that has movie posters and drawings taped to it.
Sakura is thirteen, and she is not a teenager.