disclaimer: not mine...;-;...

Oh yes, and thank everyone for reviewing my...umm...work;; I am flattered...probably beyond what is normal;

Paranoid Stalker Loves Slash--See! And my friends keep saying that I'm a pessimist...

kawaii-kirei--I read a lot of your works (actually, I think I've read at least one story by all of my reviewers, but I think I've read...almost all of yours)

Kurama Kagome FOREVER--Yes, Naruto's strength is why I adore him so much...He is a character that a lot of people can relate to, in

Fei-sama--Well, I was planning on continuing like this (ie, different chapter, different character) but I might add something more to them...maybe bring them together? And, you said 'other one,' as in, you actually read my other one? #

NO LONGER WOULD HE CRY

The last time he cried; all he could think about was the arms that were no longer there to hold him. It was dark and cold, and, for the first time, he was completely alone.

It wasn't something sudden, he had been too shocked at first to feel it when the tears began trickling down his pale cheeks. It wasn't until later, when he was huddled, frozen and alone in the dark street, that he realized what he was doing. Loud, racking sobs were torn from his throat, a tragic mockery of the laugh he had let out earlier that day, when his biggest concern was doing as well --as well--as his older brother. The same older brother who had caused the pain that he was feeling now; the same older brother who had killed--no, brutally murdered--his entire family, from the oldest grandfather to the youngest infant.

Now, instead of laughing, instead of being scolded by his mother for working too hard, instead of casting admiring glances at his brother's hitai-ate, he curled up on the side of the road, shaking and shuddering and making noises that no longer even seemed human. No one saw him, they were all home with their families, not yet knowing just how wrong--how disgustingly unfair--the world was for one small, lonely boy.

Perhaps he should have sounded the alarm, perhaps he should have run to a neighbor's house and begged for aid, but the dark-haired boy did neither. Even if it was not intentional, this night had been good for one thing, it had taught the boy distrust, and hatred, and solitude. No longer would he strive for attention--from anyone--no longer would he laugh and trust and play; he was no longer a child. From the moment, just before dawn, the last tears dried upon his grubby face, he had become an avenger.

No longer would he cry.