Disclaimer: I don't own Naruto.
The Order of Overdramatic Broken Hearts
The girl sits on the steps, in the dark, by an open door that sends rich ribbons of light into the balmy silence of a summer night. Cheery party sounds, giggles and joking conversation, wind around her shoulders in twining currents, as if she's nothing more than an obstacle. An annoyance.
As if she's barely there at all.
She just sits there, though, letting the breeze ruffle her pink hair as she listens to musical voices of the people inside. She doesn't know if she wants to be one of them. She doesn't know if she can.
So the girl just sits there, and doesn't move.
The girl is me.
I still can't explain how I got here, why I was invited to this party in the first place. All houses in Konoha look the same to me.
I still can't explain why I bothered to come.
It's not like I even have friends anymore. I used to think I did. I used to think that the whole world was my friend. I used to think that I was 'beautiful', 'desirable'; God's gift to men.
I used to think a lot of stupid things.
For all my 'beauty', for all my 'desirability', for all the boys that trail after me, I still sit alone, on a cold slate staircase, looking like the lovelorn star of some tragic romance story. I'm tired of this role, really I am. There's nothing I can do. I don't like to be alone. It bothers me. I need to be with people, however much I hate them. Doomed to feed on their personalities because I have none of my own.
And all I've got to feed on is a band of followers, more sheep than human being, who'd never dare disagree with their lady's holy words.
And all those who are not followers are deadly enemies, or indifferent. They either hate me with a passion or they just don't care. Is this what it's like to be a religion? Am I a cult? Would my disciples be known as Sakurists? Harunans? Members of the Order of Overdramatic Broken Hearts?
The girl can't take it any longer. It hurts, to laugh at yourself like this. She buries a pale face in clammy hands, trying to piece together her shattered thoughts into something whole. Even half-whole sounds good, she reflects pleadingly. Anything but this.
Because the girl doesn't like to think of herself as weak, or helpless, or needy, or scared. Because the girl likes to tell herself that she's a ninja, that she's strong, that she's in control of her life and all the roles she plays.
She doesn't know if she likes to lie.
The girl stifles a sob self-consciously, brushing away stray tears. Can't have them knowing she was crying out here, alone on a cold slate staircase, looking like the lovelorn star of some tragic romance story. Can't have them knowing how much she envies them and their carefree smiles. Can't tell them how much she hates the unquestioning loyalty of her devotees.
Can't let them find out how weak she really is, or how much she needs them.
If she goes inside now, they'll know something's wrong, she reminds herself. And then the charade will start all over.
So the girl just sits there, letting the breeze ruffle through her pink hair, trying to ignore the musical voices of the people inside. She still doesn't know if she wants to be one of them, but she can put that decision aside for the moment. Right now, she doesn't want to think. She knows she can just sit here, and not move, and nobody will notice.
Right now, she's grateful for her worthlessness.
An experiment with PoV...
