This is going to be the first chapter of a series of one-shots called "100 Things". I thought up this first chapter and the rest will be themes requested by readers who review. It can be any kind of one-shot (sad, happy, humor, drama, etc…), but you have to give me a character and a theme. (EX: "To Love 100 Things", "To Kill 100 Things", etc…) Then I'll make a one-shot for you. They'll be updated randomly and in no order. The first one is about Naruto. If I feel like it, I'll do another Naruto one.
PM, review, or email me at animeartist007 (at) yahoo (dot) com. I hope you will contribute with your requests.
Enjoy!
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100 ways to livein a dream that 'would have been' but never was because irony is just that sweet at breaking fulfilling promises like that.
His room felt dirty even though it wasn't. Every day he would vacuum the already-clean carpet and wash dishes that have never been touched because noodle-in-a-cup never required a plate or bowl. And his room still was clean, but his bed was not. Sheets were thrown in zigzag patterns across the bed and spilled onto the floor. He sat there, back pressed to the cold mattress and tired blue eyes gazed at the too-white ceiling that he had been meaning to paint porcelain-pink but never got the chance.
Arms and legs spread out on the once fair sheets, and he couldn't remember how he got there though he could remember how it happened. It played in his mind over and over like an old-age film and the man behind the screen was too tired to shut it off.
No one knew he was home. They all thought him to be gone. If he were okay he would tell them. With a cheery smile and a filling guffaw they would treat his nonexistent wounds and go on with their lives. Leaving him alone, chain still attached to him like the animal that he was, he would watch them leave.
So he won't tell them.
There's nothing they could do anyways. To far gone, they would say. So, he sits there, eyes growing dull, and stares at the ceiling that he's been meaning to paint. He knows that there's blood on the carpet, but he can't clean it now. Maybe later.
There never is a later, is there?
Dirt cakes over blood on his face and skin and Kyuubi won't talk because it hurts too much to muster up the strength to do so, so he sits in silence as he slips away.
He can feel his heart skip a beat in his ears. His lungs fill with blood to the brim as if he was toasting to Death and soon he would sip from Death's hand and he would be whisked away to a place that is 'better than here', as they say.
Night snakes it's way completely into his eyes just as the morning sun rises and somewhere out there, someone gets the feeling it will be a beautiful day.
