b e g i n n i n g s . . .
I was just being myself and wondering about the birds and the bees, and apparently what happened during the time of Naruto's childhood. Excuse the big words, I was just trying to be cool and fit in, you guys! And…a lot of…metaphors. No pairings. Your eyes will stay virgin. To Sinful Serenity AKA Sow-Sow and Crystal Child AKA Tzuki.

d i s c l a i m e r . . .
I don't own Naruto. Deal bitch.

E x i s t .

He stared into the empty darkness.

The pristine mask of feigned innocence breaking with each grin, breaking with each act the beholder played. Finally, disappearing in the desolate wasteland. Bleak lakes of icy indigo masking sulphurous depths of cerise, melted into a cool cerulean thawing with the grandiose arrival of spring.

Gazing over an exposed canvas of a perfect azure faintly flawed with wispy slivers waxen and ash.
Catching the eyes fair maidens with cheeks flushing hues of a faint roseate hung onto slender arms of deep hazel and fresh evergreen.

A vulpine grin.
Then, nothing, but air.

Air.

Smears of vivid tangerine and dusty flaxen down the charcoal road.
Echoes of childish laughter through the empty streets.

Nothing, but the empty silence to fulfill his fruitless attempt to quench his hunger. Dipping the thirsty brush back into the murky water of blatant orange; the whisper of wet skin smudging the purity of auburn walls resonates through the vast barrenness. Fingers descending downward, trailing over the rocky surface, leaving remnants of paint in its wake.

A true smile.
Then, nothing, but air.

Studying a stone portrait that bore so much resemblance to his own; he wonders. Wonders about a past he never got to know. About future he might not live to see. He watches, he smiles; it is in this moment that he is content.
But soon the mask comes back to play.

And nothing is real anymore.
A never ending river of hot, fuming words that spew from mouths filled with hatred, like lava flowing recklessly down muddy slopes.

Seething screams and livid shouts from the bystanders below him.
Empty threats of oblivion.
There is not a thing to be afraid of.

Lips warped into a childish grin. And the prisoner returns to his shackles, the sweet gratis of his soul restrained. He is no longer the oppressed child in the dark searching a purpose for existence; because they transform him into a monster with a demon in his shadows. Subdued to the obscurity of the night, veiled from the radiance of day. The taste of freedom leaves a vague mark on his tongue until his next escapade.

Their cold hands bled through the warmth of his wrists.

There was nothing, but a bitter silence.
Animosity thickly weighing heavy in the air without infamy; light cerulean eyes morphed into puddles of somber azure. His loud, obnoxious voice was stilled, only the drone of soft footsteps repeated.

Drab eyes wandering to the only thing that could ever give him peace of mind.
The austere reflection stared back at him.
But their eyes never met.

Splatters of graffiti mar the perfection of the honorable Fourth. They call him a menace, a hazard to their utopia. A force to be reckoned with. But in the end, it all returns to the same thing. Why. And he responds as if it was the simplest thing in the world.

"If you aren't remembered, then you never existed."