Writer's Note: Okay...so Im tired of always trying to write stories that dont seem that weird, or are what would be more interesting to readers. So for a change, I shall try to write how I really feel like, a story completely my own, the only things not mine being the names of the main heroes, Sakura and Sasuke(and possibly others). It's gonna be depressing and dark for the most of it, but it has an optimistic message to deliver(I hope). It's not me trying to get readers and your interest, its my effort to take out my true identity as a writter(not saying Im a good one).
I'm doing this for me. Cause I believe if you don't write with your heart, but with your mind, then it's wasted time, no matter how many critiques or good reviews someone might get. Please dont ask for clarifications, I will slowly explain and clear more things as I move on into the story. So if you arent a patient reader that doesnt want everything on the plate from ch1, then it'd be best if you didnt start this story. It's my writting style, you can either hate it or love it, but I'm not gonna change it, for now.
About the updates,(I doubt anyone would read this or want to read the continuation but Ill say it either way), I dont know every when they will be or how long the chapters and stuff like that. I am busy this period with a lot of things. So, to those who do care, please bear with me. Thank you for reading this wall of text. :)
English not my first language, so excuse my bad grammer and spelling.
I don't own Naruto.
It started as a small green leaf in the wind. And it carried on, and carried on, like the happy memories that haunted our days for seasons and years, endlessly, tiredlessly. It settled on the small rusty pat of the front door, that our gardener had forgotten to change for some good days now, probably disregarding the fact that holidays were close and the mansion would soon be full of guests.
Ever since mother had died, those memories were all we needed to go by. No amount of sweet candies that daddy brought us from town, no amount of horse races in the countryside's forests on spring and summer, no amount of beautiful and costy shining dresses directly come from our personal well paid tailor to use on crowded parties could ever have her memory fade or even be outshined just a tiny bit, so little enough to make the pain go away for a bit.
We just kept her smile in mind and kept going on with our lives, silently. At least I did.
My sister was more expressive about the whole thing. At the first days she would break things and act like an angered tiger trying to break free from her pain that chained her soul to misery and denial. Tears would mark her cheeks most parts of the day and she would just hug her knees and hide her head between her arms, crying loudly enough to have dad angered storm out of the room and not returning till it was very late at night, when she eventually fell asleep and peace returned to the big but cold mansion of ours.
I would just sit on my lil pink chair with rich designs that mum's friend had once bought for my 3rd birthday. I would observe silently around me, all the room, from my sister to the maids and the rest servants, to the very forgotten corners of the room, lighted occasionaly by the weak flames burning in the fire place in the middle of the room. My tears kept stubbornly playing hide and seek at the corner of my eyes and I would play with my soft hands, lost in my own secret delirium.
I was a strong kid for the most of it, I even managed to stay brave at mother's death. And when I really couldnt keep the bitterness in anymore, I would run out of the house and cross the high dry grass on the endless fields in the late noon, till I reached that stony but rusty well on the top of a small hill, still lighted by the last rays of the setting sun.
I would then bent over the round entrance and stare at my reflection on the water in the not so deep bottom of it. My reflection smiled at me and I thought to myself, silly, here you go again, forgetting yourself.. Drop that brave mask, you're all alone now. You and your sorrow.
And even though the fake smile still stayed persistantly plastered on my childish face the tears run hurridly down my pale cheeks and took their dive into the well's water, greeting my reflection.
And there, without even knowing it, as the strong noon wind blew and played with the small leaves lifting them above the lonely fields, my mouth just gave away to my insticts and I was screaming things that didnt even make sense out at nowhere.
When I looked back at the reflection, the smiling girl was no longer staring back at me. But an ugly deformed version of the same girl, looking straight back at me with pity. Then I would walk back home, quickly, or father would have the servants looking for me, and god knows what they went through if they couldnt find me.
My sister would look at me with hints of curiosity and surprise, being able to understand the changes on the smooth lines of my face, ever slightly deformed by my submerged pain. But she would as fast convert back to her own loneliness, trying half heartidly to deal with her own demons.
Don' t worry, I am here.
Thats what I thought, as I'd close myself into my room obediently, pretending I was praying before giving up into sleep.
Cause I had none else to rely on. None else to deal with my pain. But me. And on top of that, I had to be strong, for my sister. Dad could deal on his own, he didnt hurt much either way. Mother had always beeen just a compromise to him. Someone he married and had kids with because thats how the laws of his society had wanted it. And he just complied. As he complied now, trying to half heartidly sympathize with us in the face of her loss. But I could tell it was fake. And that's why, it was only me, for me.
My family life, just at my young 7 years old , must sound pretty tragic to you. It isn't. Just a bunch of girls, closed in a small castle, that empty, that you could hear your own echo if you yelled hard enough, trying to deal with the first big loss in our lives.
Just a bunch of spoiled rich young girls, suddenly realising that life wasn't that perfect lil thing our parents had us thinking it was, till then. But they never taught us how to react when that illusion would be smashed into hundreds lil pieces, each and every of them hurting equally bad.
But I really dont know how much of a progess was being made. Because at my late night prayers, I still asked God to bring mommy back. With a smile on my face.
Our life had changed a lot ever since mum had died. It was as if suddenly our house had transformed from a sunny valley to a cold dark dead end. And dad wasn't the same, anymore. He didn't care as much as he used to when mum was still around. He would leave on early morning and would only return late at night, when both of us were usually long asleep.
So, this is where this story starts, at a dark point in our lives. But the point isn't to describe to you our unimportant everyday doings and how we dealt with something as common in the outter world.
My reason for writting this story is to pass on to you my sister's story, as perceived and seen with my own eyes.
What would be so special about it, you might wonder again. To you, it could mean maybe nothing at all, and maybe a lot of things. To me, it's crucial because it made me what I am today.