{Authors' Note} so this is new, I have felt like writing more war stories while I'm working on like 3 others. Jeez what a bad updater am I right? Sorry for that. But yea I like this to an extent, I made this a lot like a cross between 'The Color Purple" and "Ann Frank". Basically its' Sasuke going through a war, this is his journal and it will explain how he got to be so sad and what not, along with the story of his life if he had ever lived through a non-ninja war.
DISCALIMOR: DO NOT OWN NARUTO.
DAIRY OF WAR
Week one,
Day 5,
Log # 1:
I often hear the rasping tears of the helicopter blades over-head. They seem to be coming more frequently now, almost like clockwork every hour. I turn to speak to my mother, but she just sits in place, monotone and unphased by the sound. I guess it shouldn't be of much of a surprise anymore, seeing as it's been like this for nearly a month. She must not notice, or just not want to notice it anymore. I try hard not to pay attention, but the sound fills my chest with a sudden fear, and it seems I can't help myself from looking upward at the ceiling of my bedroom whenever the blades pass my block.
Week one,
Day 6,
Log# 2:
Cars pass our street now, late in the night. They hurrily, rush through the streets, trying to find a way out, trying to get away while they still can. I urge myself to do the same- to leave, but my feet won't listen. They stay in place and keep me grounded in the waiting room of whatever fate is to come. I want to run away, somewhere far away from here, but my legs won't budge. I want to hide, if only in my closet, but still my legs pay no heed. Then six-thirty comes around, and all they can do is rush me through the cramped hallways of school, day in and day out. But they can't free me; they can only keep in going in the same cycle everyday.
Week one,
Day 7,
Log# 3:
I left to see my friend today, but when I reached the front door, I noticed the scratches by the handle, the cuts on the wood. It looks like forced entry, so I get scared and let my fear lead me away from their house and back to the safety of my room. I sit on my bed and call them, but no answer. I try again and still no answer. I don't want to get scared, but somehow I do. I wait a few hours until my fingers can remain steady enough to dial the number again. Finally an answer, but not the one I wanted. I hear his mother on the other end. She cries to me, pleads to me to tell her where he is. I don't know was all I tell her. She cries more and more until her racked sobs keep her from being able to speak. She hands the phone off to her husband and I hear what happened. They came; they took him in the night when everyone was sleeping. They broke in through the front door and snuck up to his room. They gagged him and dragged him off in the night, out to the war, where it stinks of blood and is filled with fear. Panic sets in the moment he hangs up the phone. I didn't notice until then, that I too was crying.
Week two,
Day 1,
Log # 4:
People are missing in my class now. More so then usually, and no one seems to notice. Each day another face disappears, the class shrinks down another size, names aren't said- and yet everyone is calm. I asked my teacher after class if they were sick- my friends. But he looks at me strangely and tells me no one by those names were ever in this class. I know he won't tell me more, so I stop trying to keep count of everyone that's gone. Try to not notice that there's only five left of the thirty. Try to not memorize names or faces that will be gone by tomorrow.
On my walk home I see posters pasted over billboard ads, bus stops, and walls of buildings. They all read the same, in large red font, smelling of paste-chemicals and sweat; this is the war, it is here and hungry, it is long and growing, it needs YOU to feed it.
Its' really very funny, the many meanings it can have. Feed it with your life, or feed it with others, either way each life taken makes it grow. You can try no tot take notice, not to take heed, but you will still witness the mothers' sobs, still see the scratches on the door, and hear the blades of the helicopter at night.
{Authors' Note} so that was the first chapter… I like it. It is in first person because it is a diary. I don't know if I will make OC's or just take a character and change their personality… its all up in the air right now. So review? Comment?