Disclaimer: I don't own Naruto.
In the eyes of a child, who is more of a monster: the monster under the bed, or the monster wearing a familiar face?
Monsters under the bed, fantastical creatures, faceless phantoms on darkened walls, they didn't faze me. They didn't have to. The monsters in my childhood were real.
For the longest time, I was only aware of one monster in my life. He was the one who lurked in hallways, who walked behind me. He was utterly terrifying, terrifying for his changeability.
At instances, he would be kind and melancholy, doing small favors for me and my brother and uncle. A toy that I or my brother had lost (and toys we had but few, so each one lost was like a wound) would suddenly materialize on our lonely little beds, and my uncle would leave dishes and clothes to dry overnight, and find the dishes put away or the clothes neatly folded at the edge of his bed come morning.
He was so eager to please in that time, but whenever I saw him, I saw not him, but rather his large green eyes, and the intent hidden behind them.
For that was what I feared. Not him himself, but what I saw lurking behind his eyes. Whether it was animal madness or calculated malice I will never be entirely certain, and I can't be sure if he was even aware of it himself, but it was always there, and I always saw it.
When all attempts at humanity melted away from him, I was not surprised.
I shuddered in fear every time I saw him, because deep down I knew that that could have been me, that I could have been the one with empty eyes and a hollow soul, if I had been born last. His violence was the second, rather than the first, thing on my mind, though the threat of death always lurked in the dark recesses where waking thought dared not to tread.
I had thought that one monster in my family was bad enough; I did not look for more fiends in dark places and shadows, as frightened I was with one. But sure enough, there was another monster in the family.
My father was a monster of a different kind. He ruled through cold terror, not heart-thumping violence. He had a gaze that could strike down grown men, and the ruthlessness to match. It was this fiend that allowed my mother to be consumed by what grew beneath her heart, who allowed a monster to swallow my baby brother whole, who fostered the noxious malice of my once so sweet uncle.
We all feared him; I think even the youngest of my brothers, the one so proclaimed to be monster, did. We, I, lived in fear of his unpredictable actions and the power of life and death he held over us. But there was a difference.
My fear for my father was tempered by hate, because on God's name, I can't remember the last time I loved him, truly. After his death, I respected him, even if I did despise him, but there was never love. The power he held over me was hollow and likely to fade in time if he had lived.
With the other, it was different. I think I was so much more terrified of him because I did love him, no matter how hard I tried not to, and whenever I saw him I saw the little boy who had wanted so badly to help and be approved of, and I longed for that to return. That love gave him a terrible power over me, much deeper than what my father exercised. And whether he knew it or not, he exercised it without mercy, always.
My brother is capable of healing, I know it, but I don't know how to heal him. Every time I look into his eyes, I see the failure that resounds, the failure to protect, and I fear that as much as anything else. He embodies every last human weakness found in my flawed heart, and I can not hide from it when he looks at me.
So I ask you. Which is worse?
The monster who feeds on blood…
…Or the one who made him what he is?