When I was younger, someone told me that as long as you have love, you will still have hope.
At that time, it meant nothing to me. I was young and for me, young means that I am still not in this world, 'cause I never saw or felt pain, for me, nothing was real.
Or maybe because I was so young, nothing was real. At least nothing was real for me.
The Runaway
Chapter 1: Angel on the floor
They say that if you have talent in anything, to paint, to carve, to sing or anything that is in the department of art, they say that if you have any of it, then you feel everything differently than the others that have no talent.
You feel everything deeper than the rest, with another significance than the ones with no talent that see nothing in simple things, and more than that, you share your pain, love, loneliness or even happiness in paintings, in sculptures, in songs and with the talent that I have, I've put all of my feelings in what I write.
I have always wanted to write a book, a book that many people will read and they will feel my anger, my loneliness, my pain, my happiness, my longing, my hunger, and above them all, they will feel my love.
But, I never really did it; I've never finished a whole story, not to mention to give it to someone to read it, not even to an acquaintance, not even to a stranger.
All of my stories have been thrown to the garbage by me. The already stuffed garbage from my apartment in which I live all alone. In my apartment in which you can hear the water drops from the faucet falling to the hard fabric of the empty sink.
After some time of frustration and white sheets, I gave up on the idea of writing a story and I decided to put the idea on hold, to let the story itself to grow its roots inside of me and when the time will come, to harvest it. I will write the story and then I will share it with the whole wide world.
A story that it's so wonderful, so beautiful and so outstanding, marvelous and so exciting, that no matter who will read it, to absolutely fall in love with it.
But until then, I decided to put all of my feelings in poems.
I've thought that I always had words in me which cannot be written in stories, and that I can write them; paint them and carve them in the art of poetry.
But as soon as I've started, it happened that all of my beautiful words have been suddenly drowned by my too strong feelings that had easily taken the whole control of me, and of my poems.
At first, I wrote about angels, but it had nothing to do with religion or nothing to do with more than my simple, my ridiculous and my rigid feelings, no poetry.
The only real and content structure my feelings could ever give was always just the last stanza:
"If this isn't true, then I will just die for my heart to feel free
And this time, I have no escape,
I can't work hard if I see myself crying every single day,
And I know this can't be a lie, when I want to escape,
Is this how it's supposed to be?
To want to die more than you want to live?"
Even if many of my poems had something more than simple words or maybe, something beautiful in them, they still weren't enough poetic for me, and some of them didn't had really anything poetic in them, not to mention, no rhyme, and even if I know that there are poems without rhyme, I never have liked those poems, so why my own poems have not even one stanza that rhymes?
They are like songs about feelings, but I cannot sing, so they are not even songs, not even stories, and not even poems.
My loneliness slowly suffocates me, in its silence and darkness as the wind that came from the open window that could take me away even more easily with its mystery, and to let me fly with him. But for just a second.
Because after that second, I was still a prisoner of my own gift from God, prisoner in my own body and prisoner with my incapability to do something with my meaningless life.
I always wanted to be a writer, to write at least a book, but I was a writer that indeed, writes, a writer that doesn't even likes what he writes but still writes, and in the end thinks that he can do better, but that will happen, maybe …next time.
As always, if not trying to escape the madness that tried to seduce me in my own apartment, I got out of my lovely cage and I even closed the door with the key, so that the bad luck to remain inside of it, as I got out of my apartment, starting my walk with my left foot, as always forgetting to start it with my right foot for luck.
As always, I wanted to walk through the park alone, and to think and to see, that maybe, the inspiration will suddenly hit my mind, or maybe, I used this excuse to make my routine walk to clear my head, to hear sounds, to feel the wind all around me and not just in front of me as it does in my apartment when the wind comes from the open window.
Maybe the lake from the park will make a smell that I could taste with my nose, maybe the moon will be on the sky and maybe, my poem or my story will come, with the wind, with the smell and with the noise of some other humans that could walk with me, beside me.
But as always, I came to walk in the park too late, because as always, it's night.
And so, there it's almost no one in this whole park. Just empty banks and an empty lake, a quiet atmosphere, a calm breeze often wakes me up from my thoughts but after a while, I didn't felt anything, nor the wind, nor the incredibly almost inexistent smell from the lake, and not even the full moon that has entertained me enough to look at it often and then at the road, again and again.
It all begun to be a picture that I cannot paint. A man that walks in the park at night, where the wind is too calm, the park is too empty, the lake smells almost the same as the ground, and the words, still unwritten and it all became beyond description.
It was too much, this unchangeable routine wants to eat me endlessly and who am I to say no? And with what change could I deny its structure that seems to be immune to my constant desire to burn it, as a painting that can't be redone, a painting that has been exposed to millions of people that can't forget how it looked like, the first eyes that have seen, the millions of eyes that have made photos of this very painting for its own brain connected with those very eyes.
Unchangeable as this, was my routine that could never be changed no matter how much I wish I could remake the painting, to even erase it if it's possible, to just explain them that the way the painting is now, it's not right, not perfect, not even close to comfort.
At least not for me, but for them, for people that don't even know me, for people that don't care about me, why would they let me to change or to erase my own painting when they would simply just let it as it is right now.
Because they don't need it, to feel it, to live it, some of them, often watch it how a man walks besides them without knowing nothing.
And who am I to say that they should care? When I walk beside so many people, so many untold stories, so fakes smiles on so many faces that I don't know, masks like my own, and I don't care, and I don't recognize.
'Who am I to judge them?'
I thought it while I sigh, and I looked just in front of me, at the unchangeable view. I look at the small pavement of the park and at the green tress, not too high, nor too small, but while they are dancing a little with the kind breeze of the quiet wind while the noisy ones are the leaves.
The lake at my right, and the road in front of me, while …
"Hello old man."
I've quickly looked at my left at a bank that it's not empty but changed, with a boy sitting on it, in a quite rude posture, as if sleeping there but not looking like a beggar either.
"Hn."
I should walk away already, but I do not know why I stay at the right of the bank while looking at a young boy with a blue cap on his head, while rebel bright blond hairs threaten to go outside of it.
Also, bright blue eyes, outstanding blue eyes, deeper than the ocean itself and seem to expand in my vision as the sky itself.
He is young, of course, not even white and not even too tanned skin, neat and clean, flawless skin, it makes the clothes jealous.
A dark yellow jacket and a simple orange T-shirt under it, with blue pants that seem to be in trend with the young trouble makers of these years, generations, ripped or designed to look as if he just fought with a cat or dog, or both.
Sneakers as always, grey ones with missing lacings. I wonder if he lost them or removed them.
While staring at him, I could tell that he stares at me too, but what has caught my eyes is the undeniable smoke that comes from his cigarette that he holds dearly in his right hand as he enjoys it while he smokes it slowly while looking at me.
The smoke made me to stop in that place after all, but without reason, I refused to look at my left and I continued to look just in front of me. And now, we both refuse to look at any other thing, but ourselves.
As if I surprised him, even if that was my intention, I quickly took the cigarette from his hand and I've throw it close to my feet and I crashed it with my weight while his hand is still in the air, but his eyes are not on the crushed cigarette but on my eyes, deep in my eyes.
"Why did you do that old man?"
He said almost laughing at a sentence that is not a joke, but a question, a laugh so small that it seemed nervous but he seems more than relaxed and comfortable.
I sat myself beside him, at his right; I sat normally on the dark brown bank while he still stays on it like as it it's a comfortable couch and I looked forward while I know that he still looks at me, he waits for his answer.
"Because it's not good to your health."
I said and he moved, I felt him but I dared not to look at him while I've realized that he has sat himself normally on the bank too, at my left, but he doesn't looks in front of him, like me but at me.
"So, you're a cop or something?"
He asked me, but he doesn't seem frightened to ask this, and for a moment, I wanted to say yes, just to see if he would run away from me right now if my answer would be affirmative.
"Do I look like a cop to you?"
Childish, if I could only name him in any other way. He put one leg over the other one that is on the bank, and he kept them there with his two hands while he just balanced his body, back and forward while he still talks to me.
"Well, I don't know, you walk through the park at midnight so maybe you do some shitty night tour."
"Wrong."
I somehow felt like he didn't mean those words but said them just as if to continue our conversation. The same I want after all, too, because I could give all of his answers and our conversation would be long gone, but no. We continue to ask, to taunt, to talk just so we won't be just us and the silence, us and the wind, us and the empty park.
After I said just a single word and he has begun to make a sound which I cannot tell what it is, he stopped balancing and just stared at me with an expression that says that he is disturbed by something.
'Maybe he just thinks of what to say.'
I thought while I begin to search in my dark blue jeans back pockets for my cigarette package.
I've pulled it out and took one of them and put it between my lips while I lit it with one match.
The smoke from my cigarette has begun dirtying the air of the night while he begun to talk irritated.
"You tell me not to smoke, but you can?"
I knew he will wait for my answer so I inspired the poison from my cigarette to my lungs again while the evidence were left in the air and then, I've turned my head to look at him while I knew he still looks at me and that he won't look somewhere else.
I bowed my head a little closer to him so just I could gain his attention to what I say.
"You're underage, aren't you?"
I asked and he didn't seem to be surprised by my question at all, while he smiled and talked to me while he bowed his head closer to me too, copying my earlier move.
"Sure you're not a cop?"
He asked but none of us moved so I just looked forward and I took a taste from my cigarette again and then, I let it to be blown away by the small breeze that has passed and finished with my smoke in the same time.
So I looked at him again, in the same position, and I talked to him again.
"And what if I am a cop?"
I asked him and a smirk has escaped on my lips, but not a smile while he closed his eyes and then he opened them again.
He got up from the bank, made a step or two forward and then he came back to the bank, standing on his knees while looking up at me, while I am still am on the bank, and me, looking down at him.
"I don't think you are a cop, old man."
I smoke again and then I looked at him again.
"And what do you think I am, minor boy?"
He made a sound that sounded like 'hmm' and put his right hand to his chin as if he thinks about it really hard and then he reunited it with his left hand that stays comfortable on his knees.
He stopped the sound and looked at me, closer, again and then he took my cigarette that it's almost finished and he smoked what was left from it.
I stared at him, I didn't moved while all of his inhaled smoke has attacked my face, but I did not made a move, he himself with the same hand has spread it away from us the and then he spoke again.
"Perhaps, a lonely man looking for some company."
He said and then smiled at me while I cannot believe what my ears heard.
No. I am not someone that looks for simple company; I look for silence, feelings, and inspiration.
'But silence has my apartment too. Plenty of silence…'
I thought and then a sigh has escaped on my lips.
I closed my eyes and then I spoke to him while he still stared at me very attentive.
"Then what you are?"
I asked him and he smiled right away while I couldn't tell if he was amused or if he was waiting this question.
"You tell me."
An underage boy who stays in the park all alone to smoke?
I thought, but then thought twice while I realized that he stays on this bank like it's his bed, which he seems to have lost it long ago.
"A runaway?"
I asked him and his eyes grew suddenly cold and filled with sorrow.
He stood up and he looked at the lake while he made no move that he will look at me again but he spoke when I was ready to say something after such a dead silence.
"And if I would tell you that I am a runaway. What your answer will be?"
I almost felt like he stopped himself from saying other answers, answers that he has already in mind, answers that have been told to him so many times before, so I waited, until he turned around to look at me again, with bright blue eyes and with the full moon behind him, engraved in the quiet lake couldn't match the beauty his eyes that almost invited me to watch them.
I feels like you can grow tired of the moon but not of his eyes.
"What would you like me to tell you?"
I asked and I could say that he was not satisfied with my answer. He moved right and left but still stood in the same place with his legs, I could tell how nervous he is just because he didn't get a straight answer.
"I would… like you to tell me that…"
He said word by word, not a sentence, not sure of what to say, nervous, afraid or maybe just confused of what will come his way. The storm or the blazing sun, these are his only choices that could be decided just by an answer. But told by someone else but him
"Tell me your name."
I said after I've realized that he won't say any word after some seconds of pure silence.
I looked up at him and he looked down at me while he was surprised by my words.
"Naruto. My name is Naruto."
He said and in that moment, I stood up and I looked him in the eye.
"Well, Naruto, would you like me to tell you to come with me at an empty apartment, with little food in which it's too hot when it's summer and too cold in the winter, with me, a stranger?"
I asked while his smile was so big and so sad that I could not beat an eyelash until he spoke again.
"Yes, I would like this answer very much."
I could tell that no matter the fact that I could be a serial killer and my apartment to have the most despicable conditions; it would be more pleasant than to sleep on a bank in the park, all alone.
After all, I knew those feelings so well, too well.
So I sat down on the bank again, on my spot, and opened my cigarette package and I lit one cigarette,then put everything back and I can enjoy the taste, the smoke is left in the air and then my words have came with the breeze of the late summer in that day.
"Then this is your answer."
He is confused, even more than confused, the possibility that I really want to take him with me, he cannot tell if I'm serious or not. He cannot tell if he is right when he thinks that he has just received an affirmative answer. So, our game with our own words has come to an end when he asked me the final question, while he boils of curiosity.
"You mean that I can go with you, you mean that I live with you now and that…"
He said rather quickly and all that I do is to nod my head in affirmation, up and down while the air is now dirty.
While he almost jumped when he realized and ran towards me and embraced me and after some seconds of silence, he got up and talked again.
"I'm sorry, I didn't mean to make you feel uncomfortable, uh, I …don't know…"
Happy, that is the feeling that he feels in this moment, that feeling alone.
Even the fear that his expectations would be destroyed didn't dare to touch his happiness.
So, all I did was to enjoy my cigarette, while he manifested his nervousness and happiness right in front of my very eyes.
"But…"
He suddenly said and just then, I almost finished my cigarette while he spoke to me once again.
"You didn't tell me what's your name yet…"
He said and I could tell that he tried to resist the urge to say old man again and he just stared at me, waiting. While I thrown the cigarette to my feet while I stood up and crushed it in the same time under my shoe, and then, I responded him.
"Sasuke, Sasuke Uchiha."
To be continued…
I hope everybody enjoyed the first chapter as much as I did writing it.
I apologize for the other stories that haven't been updated for some time now, but I want to let everybody know that I will update this story once per week. Today it's Sunday at me and I will probably post the next chapter the next Friday, Saturday or Sunday, in these days. And so it will all start for the next weeks if I can't or couldn't write I will post a note that says why or when the next chapter will be up like I started to write it Sunday but didn't finished until midnight so I will let you guys know that it will be out in a few hours or even the next week if I have nothing but this won't happen too soon.
I will try to keep this promise with all my might. Even if other stories won't be updated, this will be like this.
Well, the chapters are the names of the poems that are in the story. The poems are really mine, that poem was my first poem ever. And it wasn't that good but I mean it what I said in this chapter and what I will say in this story. The message I want to give and all the emotions.
The title may seem borrowed but I couldn't name it otherwise, the thing is that they won't form a band or anything, I hope I didn't disappoint anybody. The runaway is indeed Naruto if any of you had any doubts and Sasuke in a way but you will know who is and what story everybody has if you continue to read of course.
If you guys have any opinions about this story or about the name of the story it will be changed if you give me something really good but I think it fits, well with what idea I have anyway.
This probably will be the biggest AN, I won't write so much in the future, sorry for all this but you had to know all this for the future, I won't complain about anything here unless is really necessary stuff to know or something.
Well, see you next week, thank you for reading, I will wait for your opinions patiently and I will be very grateful for every word you want to show me.