Unnoticed

Even if I follow him to the ends of the earth, I would never know the entire truth about him and his past. He is an unsolved mystery. He represents all that is unknown in the world. He isn't meant to be understood by any soul, yet I can't help but crave discovering the untold regions hidden in the depths of his shielded eyes.

For me, he is the ultimate puzzle. He's my forbidden fruit. A thing I desire even though I know this obsession isn't good for my health. I can't have him in the way I wish. I do understand that—I've always been one of those people that can pick up the vaguest of details in mere moments—but my problem is that I can't fight this strange attraction. I'm helpless to his pull (I'm not even sure if I want to fight this so I suffer as my mind and heart pull my body apart in their war between what I should and shouldn't do) and this knowledge both excites and terrifies me.

How can he have so much sway over my existence when he probably doesn't even know I live?

It would be so much easier if one or neither of us had been born into this life. Perhaps then I wouldn't be feeling this indescribable pain. (Does he even know how much he's hurting me? Is he aware that I die inside every time he looks at me, only for his gaze to sweep completely over me as if I'm not even there? He's truly innocent, yet something inside me whispers that he is the cruelest person I've ever known and a part of me can't help but agree even if it makes the hurt worse. It's an endless cycle of torment and I sometimes find myself wishing for that last escape known as death. The last journey everyone will eventually take, even those that are supposedly everlasting—I've always believed that to be a lie. And in the end I know I'll be proven right because everything dies, even time.) But I'm caught like the little frightened fly in the spider's web and it's only worse because he is the spider.

His words are like the spider's poison burning in my veins. He is the mastermind behind this little show (and this isn't surprising at all because he has always been a talented puppet master, and now I'm one of his puppets), the killer that has marked me for death; he is my judge, jury, and executioner in this trial. It doesn't matter that I'm innocent or that he is guilty even though he doesn't know it—everything is out of my hands because it was never in my hands in the first place and I only understand that now. Life has been unkind to me all this time, so why should it give me a break now when I'm at its mercy? The only comfort I have is that someday I know this pain will come to an end and I can finally sleep in Death's sweet and peaceful embrace.

Will he be there with me?

I'm doomed. Why can't I just forget about him? It's not like he remembers me . . . I'm nothing but a featureless face in a crowd to him. Does he really deserve my attention, as pitifully unnoticed as it may be? I'm only hurting myself more whenever I think of him.

What if someone else feels the same way for me as I feel for him?

. . .

I hadn't thought of that before. Some genius I am . . . too fixated on him to realize until now that maybe someone else sees me like that. He really has poisoned me, hasn't he?

Like that deceitful spider. Manipulator and murderer. He's dangerous and deadly. A scorpion.

If I continue to follow him like a helplessly lost little puppy, I'm going to die alone. For why should one such as him even deign to give me his attention? I am nothing to him.

I can give him up, right? It's really the only way I'll end this torment. At least without taking the pathetic way out and killing myself like some despicable martyr in one of those tragic hero stories I used to hear about when I was a kid. That's way too melodramatic for me.

Can I really let him go?

It's been several days now since I've reached the decision to give him up. I focus almost entirely on the small things in my life (wake up, take a shower and make sure I've cleansed every last inch of my body, clean all of my teeth to blinding perfection, tidy up my room and organize that large collection of clay I use for experiments, etc.) in an attempt to ignore him. So far this new tactic works and I'm not as distracted by his presence, though that's because I've been avoiding him.

Whenever he's in a room I'm heading to I've swiftly turned around and gone the other way, planning to come back later when he wouldn't be there. Surprisingly, this strategy works pretty well and despite the way my heart is crying out from the distance, I congratulate myself on distancing myself from my would-be-murderer.

Perhaps I have a chance after all.

And then when I meet him for yet another mission, I just pretend that everything is completely normal before following him out the door and forcing myself to memorize the path instead of the way he leads us both to our destination.

He's too busy grumbling over Leader's orders and how this mission interrupted him during a construction of a new puppet to notice that I'm not really responding except with indiscernible grunts similar to that bastard Itachi's usual answer to daily conversation.

Hn.

It hurts that he doesn't notice, but I refuse to show it. Can't have him seeing right through me with those calculating eyes of his, right?

This would be so much easier if I was flying.

My thoughts wander to the heavens above, and I absently notice that Leader has momentarily cut off his rain spell so that neither of us would get drenched on our way out of Amegakure. (I would've thought Leader was being considerate, but that wasn't really like the man. He wasn't that kind to us subordinates, which is probably how he's managed to lead us for so long. I know Hidan would've walked all over him if he was a weakling.) Memories of previous flights in the sky drift across my mind and I smile slightly.

Humans were never meant to fly. Evolution saw to that when it gave us heavy bones, soft and solid flesh, and denied us the right to sprout wings to take flight. But, to my immense satisfaction, I defied Mother Nature and created my own wings with the help of my art. I created my art and in that very first moment of its destruction, something inside of me had screamed with sadistic pleasure at the burst of color and sound preceding the explosion.

But before I had destroyed my creation, I had flown amongst the clouds and experienced something like true freedom. With nothing but the frigid wind in my face and the land of mortals below the clay wings of my eagle, I felt that there was absolutely nothing that could take away my newfound freedom. It was something I dreamed about for so long because it represented escape from the hell my life had been back then. It was a moment of being limitless and uncontrolled—nobody could take away my wings or my freedom and I could watch below as everyone watched me jealously because I could go where they could not—and that was one of the best pleasures in my life.

It all had to come to an end at some point. Unfairness is a harsh part of life, especially for us shinobi. We rise in happiness, we soar far above the misery of others, unreachable, and then we arrive at the climax. It's only downhill from there . . .

I sigh and shake the thoughts from my head, a spike of contempt curling my lips into a disdainful smirk. Looking back down to earth, I see him still walking ahead. It's almost funny how he leads me like a pig to the slaughterhouse. It's annoying, too, that he doesn't even realize it but that's why I'm slowly distancing myself from him. I won't let myself be blindly pulled forward like some helpless little child.

Brat.

That's what he calls me. The only sign of acknowledgment from him is such a condescending moniker better suited for someone half my age. Delivered in that cold and utterly emotionless voice of his (or perhaps in annoyance on those very, very rare occasions that I somehow manage to completely piss him off), it's a wonder how I ever became enraptured by that oh-so-intoxicating presence of his. But I can be childish. I'm easily captured by the slightest gestures made by him yet fickle in other things like how I'm still not entirely sure what this mission is about.

As I follow him to wherever this new mission will take us, I idly wonder if he even realizes that I've slowed a bit. Not enough to be considered stalling (even I am not so foolish as to unnecessarily irritate him with the apparent foul mood he's in), but just enough that he would have to turn his head slightly if he wanted to catch a glimpse of me.

I guess some small part of me still wants him to notice. To turn his head and snap at me for falling behind. Maybe he's right . . . maybe I am a brat.

And he does look back, brows arching in the slightest of frowns as he glares at me in annoyance. "Hurry up, brat. We have a time limit to reach our destination and I don't like to be kept waiting," he snaps before turning back around and picking up the pace.

My mouth curves upwards but the smile is dark and not at all happy (it doesn't matter that I've let my mask down in this moment; it's not like he'll notice with his back turned).

"Yes, Sasori no Danna," I say and obediently speed up to match his stride.

He may have noticed me in this moment, but it's not the way I want. It's not like someone like him even cares whether or not I follow him to the ends of the earth. People like him may pretend to care, but it's all a lie. An act put on like the skillful and talented puppet master he is.

Yet for some reason, I can only continue following him down this road, perhaps where the only destination is death. I can only hope I'm that fortunate.

AN: Changed all of this from 2nd person to first since this site doesn't allow any stories in the former. Whoops. Anyway, hopefully this version is liked more than the previous. Thanks for reading!

~amkay