A/N: The story should speak for itself.
That night, there was blood. Rivers of it coated the streets, filled the gutters, and painted the walls. It bathed the Uchiha district in red.
"Your mission, should you choose to accept..."
His hands were stained with crimson liquid. The pungent smell filling his nose. He tightened his grip around his katana, striding forward with a predatory gait. The screams rang in his ears, haunting him forever.
"Yes, Hokage-sama?"
Behind him, the man, claiming to be Uchiha Madara, was having a little fun of his own. The battle cries and dying wails melding into a symphony of absolute agony. He flinched, faltering in his step but never once looking back.
"Is to execute the Uchiha Clan."
A noble manor stood towering over him. Its quiet elegance and proud splendor reflecting the persona of its owner. No lights were lit in this house, the dark windows seemed to stare disapprovingly at him. He grunted. They were his last victims and he knew they were lying in wait for him.
"Yes, Hokage-sama...Understood."
He strode forward, violently kicking open the front door. An empty hallway greeted him. The traces of familiar warmth and serenity seemed to mock him. It was as if time had stopped. Everything was just as it was when he left this morning. His favorite umbrella was still leaning against the cracked, white wall. His extra pair of sandals were still lying beside his parents shoes. The coat closet's door was still partly open, in his hurry he had forgotten to close it.
"I tried to convince them otherwise. But they were very adamant about it."
Absentmindedly, he shook off his shoes and closed that open closet door. The quiet click resounding in the silence. He let his eyes slowly drift shut, pretending for one god-given moment, that everything was still alright.
"Tadaima." He whispered.
"I'm sorry, Itachi-san. I am so sorry."
Uchiha Itachi was home.
The floor boards creaked. Like they always did whenever they were stepped on. Itachi paid it no mind, his feet automatically taking him through the first doorway in front of him. It was as if he wasn't on a mission. It was as if there wasn't a blood bath going on right outside. Once he passed through this door, he would see his mother working diligently by the sink. Her hands caressing the dishes with the some gentle touch she used on her sons. She would hear him come in and she would look over her shoulder and smile.
"Welcome home." She would say.
But as Itachi rounded the corner, all he was met with was silence. The kitchen was abandoned. There was no 'mom' working by the sink. There was only a dripping faucet. The luminescent light of the streetlamp outside floated in from the window above the sink. The yellow beam falling upon a traditional Japanese dining table, right where he would sit. A cup of tea, still piping hot, was placed on the table. It was waiting for him.
Itachi remembered when his mother began preparing tea for him after his missions. He was born into a time of war, when death and misery was a part of every day life. Certainly not a time to be raising a child. Despite this, his parents tried their hardest to give him the most pleasant upbringing. When the Academy allowed him graduate at the earlier age of seven, his mother made sure to reward his mission efforts with relaxing chamomile tea. He could remember it like it was yesterday.
The memory played before his eyes, like an old film with the black and white pictures. He had just got back from his first D-rank mission. They had to sharpen all the weaponry in the armory. It was for all the brave soldiers out in the front lines, they would be using these swords, these knives, and there would be so much blood. He remember his sensei saying this to them. He said it so bluntly and the words followed him all the way home. His mother saw his distraught expression and her eyes saddened. For one second she looked to be in pain but she recovered. Immediately after, she took out the kettle and boiled some water. She dropped in a packet of tea and asked him to sit. He was such an obedient kid back then, still was come to think of it.
He clenched his fists, emotion threatening to break his mask. Hesitantly, Itachi took a seat at the table. In his spot where he usually sat. He placed his katana on the floor, letting it stain the white mat on the floor. Red and white, such a startling contrast. He reached across the table and gently picked up the cup. The warm steam and gentle scent taking him back. He had stared so curiously at his mother the first time she gave this to him. She just smiled in return and urged him to drink it.
"It will calm your nerves. I know from experience." She stated. Then she hugged him. Her arms were so comforting, he remembered. Her embrace filling his very being with love.
"Everything will be okay, okay Itachi? I'm right here, I'm not leaving you." His mother whispered.
Taking a dainty sip, he drank the tea. His body relaxed, his emotions fading away to dull ache. A sound, a movement upstairs. Itachi gathered his bearings and stood up. He picked up his weapon, the steel glinting along the sharpened edges. He made his way out of the kitchen, closing the door behind him, closing it completely.
Itachi turned his attention to the stairs on his left, his gaze moving till it reached the top. Up there would be his next kill. With all the grace and prowess of a trained shinobi, he swiftly climbed the stairs. Not a sound from the floorboards, his feet making not a single noise. The upstairs hallway was sill so desolately empty. But his ears, his keen ears, caught the faintest shuffling. He headed towards it.
Oh how the roles were reversed. When he was younger, he used to have nightmares. Awful, hellish nightmares. He would scream and he would cry. He tried to do this quietly, so that his parents wouldn't worry. But one night, the nightmare was too terrible. It was after his first B-rank mission. He had finally killed someone. He could recall so clearly, the blood staining his hands, the light flickering away from those eyes. He was so scared and he felt terribly alone. So he screamed.
His father came running. Itachi could only wonder what went through his father's mind at the time, hearing a such fearful cry from his child. Whatever it was, it was a lot worse than what he saw. A hiccuping Itachi, muffling his sobs with his hands. He was already ten-years-old. He was too old to cry. But his father shook his head and kneeled in front of him. He patted his head gently and said,
"You don't have to be afraid alone. If you're scared, your mother and I will understand. Being a shinobi isn't an easy job." The he leaned in and said mischeviously. "Would you like to hear a secret?"
"What?" He had asked.
"I was scared too." His father laughed. "You don't have to be strong all the time, you're still just a child, Itachi."
But that was a lie.
Itachi approached his parent's bedroom. Just as his father approached his so long ago. Except this time, he wasn't here to end the nightmare. He was here to start it.
That was lie, wasn't it Dad?
The door opened with no resistance. His parents, being Uchihas, would never stoop so low as to be desperate. They would never hide, their pride would never let them. Stepping into the room, the first thing he saw was his father staring out the window. His back was facing him. Her mother was sitting on the bed, staring so hopelessly at her hands. She was trembling.
"Itachi." His father began.
He idly wondered when did this man become so small? When he was little, he remembered being hoisted upon those broad shoulders as they walked through the park. He remembered watching with such awe at that back as his father demonstrated how to use a kunai. He remembered looking up so proudly at his dad, his hero, beaming at him as he returned his smiled. When did he begin to look down at him, Itachi wondered. When did he become so small?
"Why?" His mother finished.
This woman, so broken, so cold. What happened? She was so loving, she was so warm. She would sing to him such soft lullabies, gently rocking him to sleep. She would kiss him so sweetly upon the forehead, occasionally on the cheek. He could remember the onigiri she would pack him. She would hand them to him wrapped in that silky cloth and smile at him so happily. Where did that woman go?
"Because, I'm not perfect." Itachi replied.
His father turned on his heels. His anger burning so fiercely in his eyes. He lunged at Itachi, a kunai in his hand. Itachi was too quick for him though. He side-stepped the man, tripping him with a carefully placed foot. He then twisted his body so he sat on the man's back, his fist grabbing a handful of the man's hair. He raised the man's head, placing the katana's edge on his throat.
"Fugaku!" His mother shouted.
Itachi ignored the woman's screams, leaning in closer to his prey.
"I'm sorry." He whispered in his father's ear.
His fingers found a spot on the man's neck. With a quick squeeze, the man was unconscious. The woman screamed, moving towards him. Itachi took that as his cue and got up from his seat. He vanished only an instant later. He reappeared behind the woman and delivered a quick chop to the neck. She too fell unconcious.
He made quick work of his wire, tying it tightly around his victims until it cut their skin. He kept his expression a professional blank as he dragged the two bodies out into the hallway. Passing by his little brother's, Sasuke's room, Itachi paused in mid-step. The door was opened halfway, allowing Itachi to see enough of the room. What a foolish otouto he had, leaving his room unprotected like that. Not that he would need for it to be protected but as a shinobi, one must always be careful.
His brotherly instincts took over and Itachi unceremoniously dropped his parents bodies on the floor. He strode over and took hold of the door knob, his eyes catching a few of the objects inside. There were toys littered all over the floor. Clay shurikens, blocks, and that one dinosaur he had given Sasuke for his birthday. It reminded Itachi, rather painfully, how young Sasuke still was. He could even recall Sasuke's birth like it was yesterday, never mind that he had a photographic memory.
The room wasn't like it was now. It had been a nursery once upon a time, with bright yellow wallpaper and an ornate, white crib. He had helped his father decorate the room, once upon a time. He had been so excited to meet his new little brother, he had slept in that room so that he could welcome his mother the next day. Sure enough, the very next morning, he had awoken to the sound of his mother's coos. She was bent over the crib, previously unoccupied but now holding a squirming baby Sasuke.
Itachi had been curious about this new family member. Sasuke being so small, Itachi had become apprehensive of approaching him. He was afraid the little guy would break if he touched him. His mother giggled at this, her laugh a high trill like the chirp of a bird. She assured him there was nothing to worry about and urged him to come close. He did, eventually, when his mother had eventually left the room. She had to make supper after all and left Itachi in charge.
"I trust you to be responsible Itachi." She said as she walked out the door.
Alone in the room with no supervision, Itachi finally allowed himself to draw closer to his little brother. Tiptoeing as if the baby was lion that could wake up and eat him. Though the baby did wake the moment Itachi had come close enough, he did not eat Itachi, nor scream, or cry at him. No Sasuke smiled that gummy toothless smile that only a baby could pull off, and promptly tugged at Itachi's bangs. Itachi had winced in pain and Sasuke squealed in delight.
He remembered being so fond of that tiny life that had graced him with such sincere affection. The one person in the entire world who looked up at him and expected nothing more of him than just being his older brother. That reminded Itachi, he would have to arrange the most perfect welcome for his foolish otouto. Just as he tried that morning so long ago. Except this time, he would be awake and he would greet Sasuke properly.
That night, as the Uchihas were murdered, there had been a full moon. The very same moon that had watched as Kyuubi rampaged through the streets of Konoha. Itachi could remember that fateful attack clearly. His father had dashed out the door, fully clothed in all the shinobi gear, to fight at the frontlines. His mother was rocking a bawling Sasuke, murmuring assurances and whispering sweet lullabies. His little brother had stared at him with watery eyes, begging for protection by the sheer emotion behind those coal-black orbs.
Orbs that would later turn red. Red as the Magenkyou Sharingan that Itachi now weilded. Red as the blood of family, of friends, and of people held dear that ran down his katana. Red as the tip of the Uchiha clan symbol, the uchiwa.
He didn't know it then, but on that night, his entire life would be destroyed. Consequently, so did his entire family's. On that night, suspicion arose from Council of Elders. On that night, the Uchiha's were labeled dangerous and a threat to peace. On that night, they were sentenced to death. And he was the executor.
That night, as his brother arrived home, there was yelling. There was half-muffled sobs and broken warnings. There was fear and the pathetic pleads for damned mercy. And there was blood. Lots and lots of it. Seeping through the cracks of the creaking floorboards, so as to never creak again.
"Hate me. Run, run and cling to life."
That night, the Uchiha clan was massacred. Their bodies littering the streets. That night, his foolish otouto had chased him. Throwing kunai at him with the intent to kill. That night, Uchiha Itachi, praised prodigy, cried. His tears for the shattered childhood memories broken by his own hand.
Because he wasn't perfect. Because he was human. Because he was frightened and alone. Itachi cried.