**I've heard all about things like rape, eating disorders, and even anger problems can cause a lot of trouble. But I've never fully understood it until I researched and read some accounts, and it was terrifyingly sad. I'm not going to be obscene and detail an actual rape, of course. It just focuses on the after effect. And the main character says Naruto, but really it includes all of Team Seven in an alternate universe.
**This story may be highly disturbing to some people considering: malexmale implied rape, future eating disorder stuff, murder, etc…Do not read if you've experienced these things before because it might trigger something bad.
**Also, yeah, there are long run-on sentences, but those were on purpose to give it more of a despairing feeling.
Summary: Konoha; a camp for troubled teens. A rape victim that's suicidal, a violent boy with anger problems, and a girl with an eating disorder, anorexia. Is it possible to become friends?
Chapter 1 —Naruto—
He woke up, his head throbbing painfully. He looked around the strange room. His vision was unclear, his mind foggy. He tried to get up. His arms shook with the effort, and he dimly registered the fact that his movements were slowed, and it felt like a lot of energy expended for a small amount of action.
It was as if he was underwater, fighting against the currents to move. Somehow, it all felt like a dream. He hoped it was. All he could remember was a party, and a can of beer. Only one, which shouldn't have affected him like this. His heart thumped wildly, and his mind shut down. He wouldn't— He couldn't think of that possibility.
Why him?
He dumped his bag unceremoniously onto the tiled kitchen floor.
"Dad, I'm home!"
"How was school?" came the generic question. He rolled his eyes. It wasn't like he actually expected that his dad would stop his oh-so-important work just to talk to him, but a small part of him had hoped.
He had been having a really strange week, like he couldn't quite get a sense of reality. Moving through the motions, but he was having trouble focusing. And those really weird dreams that kept popping up. (They had to be dreams. They just had to.)
"Fine," he mumbled. A strange wave of frustration consumed him for a minute, and he grabbed his bag, hoisting it over his shoulder angrily before running to his room.
Behind him, his father peeked out from his study in concern, only to see the empty kitchen and then hear the abrupt slam. He winced. There was a sudden change in his son this week, unexplainable. He had tried his best to help, but he knew he wasn't the best father in the world. He always tried, but his own dad hadn't given him much attention so he never knew what to do.
In his room, he glanced around his room, not really seeing anything. His hand clutched the doorknob tightly, his tanned fingers starting to turn white from the loss of blood.
"Ugh…"
His back instinctively hit against the door to support him in case he fell over, and he slowly slid to the ground until he was sitting. His eyes fluttered shut.
The cold fingers ghosted around his neck. He knew he should be concerned, but he couldn't quite grasp what was happening.
There was a low murmur, but he felt the hot, unsettling breath more than he heard the words. A low rumble, strangely soothing and yet it sent prickles down his spine. Who was this?
The fingers dropped lower to the small of his back, guiding him, maneuvering him around the crowds of people everywhere. Where were they going?
He breathed in a sharp breath, suddenly gasping for air. Only faintly aware that he was starting to hyperventilate, the dreams—no, the memories— starting pushing their way into his thoughts.
A door creaked open. The room was dark, scary compared to the bright hallway behind him. A soft push, and he landed on a soft bed.
The murmur came again, only with different words.
"…fun…I promise…"
'N—No…' He tried to say it, but his mouth, his whole jaw felt numb. He kept drifting in and out of consciousness.
His mind was whirling with the new information. He always knew, but he just tried to convince himself that it wasn't true. He was a guy! Guys don't get raped…right?
His hand shook as he locked the door. He collapsed on the ground, refusing to touch his bed, and he cried shamefully. 'It wasn't my fault,' he tried to think, but all he could feel was the disgust. Horrible, consuming his thought and his mind and his action and all he could think was how disgusting it was and how disgusted people would be if they ever found out and it overtook him. Like a little parasite, writhing inside him, impossible to get out, just growing and growing and feeding on his positive emotions and letting the hatred and the anger and the horror just grow, and grow, and grow.
He cried and he cried, worse than he had ever done in his entire life, and, right there on the floor, he fell asleep.
Why did it have to be him?
Now he was just another statistic.
Sorry if you are unhappy with a short chapter, but I found I work better with short stories and one shots (basically, short length) because I stay focused and actually complete it.
Did you cry? I almost cried as I was writing it, even though I'm not really a crying person…
Please leave feedback: how to improve, your thoughts, even if you thought it was horrible (please at least say why though). Thank you very much, I'll try to update next week if I can.
I've estimated 10 to 15 chapters, though the length might possibly stay the same, or it might get longer because I have more to write about.
Today: 3/10/11