I, According to Me

Disclaimer: I do not own Naruto. That copyright belongs to Masashi Kishimoto.

I don't want to be perceived the way I am

I just want to be perceived the way I am

-"Chap Stick, Chapped Lips, And Things Like Chemistry" by Relient K

Arc I: The Lonely Ones

Part II: Staining the Rainbow Black

"I'm not a prodigy, just an Uchiha."

That is what he mutters under his breath when the murmuring, awed masses make mention of tensai while looking at him. He's not the genius in his family. Far from it. He knows this; has been painfully aware of it since the time his mind could first comprehend kunai trajectories. Comprehend, but not master, as his dear nii-san had so easily done.

And he resents that title. Tensai. Genius. Prodigy. It burns his skin, so hated is that term. So damnably proud and upstanding; something to flaunt; something to carry with pride in hand. And invariably, someone to look up to; someone to aspire to emulate; someone to surpass. Because, for all of his betrayal and subterfuge, his nii-san was truthful when he said that others will hate people with power greater than their own. Admiration only has a shelf life of so long, before it spoils, rotting into an uneasiness that soon ferments to become fear. And people only fear what they do not understand, and what they do not understand, they hate.

Sasuke knows all this. He knows it, but power is what his hand reaches for anyway. He has never thought to pull back from it. He has been alone for so long, the painful alienation that comes with feared strength means nothing to him but more of the norm. What is another scrape on an already-scarred arm?

And it is not as though he likes the pain; likes being the kicked puppy. Despite his penchant for insinuating himself into volatile and evermore damaging situations, he does not like the hurt they hold as companion. He willingly accepts it as it comes in higher and higher tides, but he does not wish for it.

Indeed, his wish---if one could call a desire so dark by that hopeful, innocent word---is to eradicate his (ghost) pains from his past that haunt him, ever-present, and rob him of a sane future.

So, a little more; just a little more isolation; just a little more self-loathing to complement his outward hatred of his nii-san (they are brothers, after all); just a little more anguish to alienate him further---to allow him to keep them away. Because, when the pain hits, he shuts his (gifted/cursed) eyes tight. And he cannot see those he will one day cast aside. Colours---blue and yellow and orange; dark grey and light grey, always grey…; and green and pink and red (and he tries not to think of the dichotomous quality those colours present in relation to him: her red and pink to his blue, her green to his red (eyes that scorn her, yet see little else but green and pink when closed once leaving her)). Colours do not enter his sight then. And he can ignore---forget even---for a while that he even has the option of being painless for a moment; a lifetime.

Because his eyes are still closed---though he knows what is beyond that thin layer of skin---he cannot see it. Does not allow himself to see anything but that red hell (and pink and green, and yellow and blue, and all that grey) his nii-san gifted him with free access to. He can visit it anytime he wants now---more like, whether he wants to or not. (He has to sleep sometime, after all, and that is the ticket to his very own, private hell. (Such a thoughtful gift, nii-san…))

Anything outside of perfection is vestigial (pink and yellow are such convoluted colours; grey is almost acceptable. Almost. (And he ignores how he doesn't mention green and blue as being frivolous---their unnecessary complications lending to imperfection. His eyes are still closed anyway (Colours have no meaning when you can't see them.), though his mind's eye can still offer glimpses: it never closes, nor does it turn away from what it wishes to see.)), so they cannot be part of his (im)perfect (dark) wishes.

He must endure (the pain; the pursuit of (un)happiness; the phantom from his darkest night(mare) by himself.

Though that shuddering eight-year-old inside of him (tremulously) whispers of fear. Fear of pain; fear of loneliness (Kaa-san! Tou-san!); fear of (becoming) his nii-san.

But the awed masses are whispering too. And they continue to say that word: tensai. His irritation and anger boil over again, and that cursed gift upon his neck begins to etch its way deeper into his skin. And it (really) hurts.

The pain… He cannot escape it, regardless of his choice: to continue to play games in a colourful world or to leave it for a land of Sound, where darkness robs colour of life and silence reigns supreme.

So, his inner child's whispers are drowned out by that eerie quiet (Oto… It is populated by hollow winds and even more hollow people…), though he remembers the sentiment.

And it gnaws at him: to pursue perfection so he might deal death, or accept his inadequacies and pursue a world of green, blue, and grey. It sounds alluring…

Then that crimson/coal dominion takes hold, bleeding hatred and vengeance upon his vibrant world, staining the rainbow black and the sky red (ironically, because of his nii-san's kaleidoscope eyes).

Suddenly, he cannot accept his mediocrity. It is shameful, to be so weak. It shames his fallen family's name ("You are not like your brother.") and it sickens him to the point of a fevered rage. He is not good enough. He was not worthy of dying with his family, yet he is not worthy of living in their stead. So, where does that leave him? In some sort of limbo for the contemptible failures?

So he trains and hones and perfects. Everything is a means to a (stronger) end. Everything to that one goal; that one ambition.

And the disconcerting circumstance, of a boy so young having an ambition so tainted, is not lost on him. It is repugnant in its straightforwardness; far too blunt and human to be fit for the mind of (what should have yet been) an innocent child. He knows such goals are not normal. He knows he is not---has never been---normal. (People often mistake mediocrity for normalcy, as his parents did. Perhaps they ought to have been concerned about him, as well as his nii-san.)

But it is (unfortunately) what he is. He has never hidden it (But I wish it were invisible…); never shied away from it (But I would like to abandon it, instead of how I know I will one day abandon them…). He has embedded it deep within the layers of dried blood that coat his anaesthetized soul, though it bears down on him like a felled tree.

Because just once he would like to be able to say, "I'm Sasuke," and not have people respond, "An Uchiha!" or, "A prodigy," or, "The avenger of that clan."

He would like to know how it feels to fail at something his first try at it, and not feel the accusatory eyes staring at his slumped form, silently shouting, "You're weak," or, "Second-rate Uchiha," or, "You are not like your brother."

He would like to forgo pride and take the fall, straight up.

He would like to admit that he isn't perfect (and probably never will be…).

But he cannot do those things because Uchiha do not do those things. And regardless of how he wishes he could just be Sasuke for a moment, he will always be an Uchiha.

So, he follows the Sound (Surely a misnomer…) that calls him away, into isolation, yet again.

The colours fade. And he lives in a silent world of blacks and reds.

End of Part II, Arc I

Guttersnipe's Word: Next up is Sakura and the end of Arc I.

Revenge is to Sasuke, as reviewing is to Mr. Clicky, down there. You wouldn't steal Sasuke's revenge, so please don't deny Mr. Clicky his sole purpose for existence. Please review.