I like to think that I don't believe in God.
When I was young, I would find a certain amount of peace in running and hiding in the Temple near the orphanage, where a kind rabbi would let me hide out when "home" was too cruel.
He told me fables and songs and teachings from the Torah, and would let me join the Saturday Mass if I sat in the back where I couldn't be seen.
He was old and smelled of paper, and time has stolen most of my memories of him. All that remains is the distinct flash of light on his glasses, the bristles of his beard, the worn softness of his hands when he ruffled my hair.
Kind as he was, he never offered me any form of salvation, no assistance in finding a kind and loving home. He told me about God and His love, but never offered anything beyond a mild sympathy.
As the years went on, the rabbi became more important to others. He became distant and unmindful of the child who would sit after hours at the altar where they hung the beautiful Star David, making up children's songs with the few Hebrew words he'd learned.
I was not surprised when the rabbi was gone and a scornful woman chased me away.
Perhaps the dark part of me was more visible back then, because it's been years since strangers automatically avoided me.
From then on, I watched the Temple's doors with angry longing, and a deep-rooted anger began to fester.
I like to believe that I don't believe in God. But if I didn't believe in him, I don't think I could have learned to hate him so much.
"Iruka! Iruka! Guess what?!"
"What is it, Naruto?"
The man smiles at me brightly and hands me a cookie. I wave the paper around like a flag and he takes it from my little hand.
"I got an A! It's my first ever! We had to write about someone special in our life and I wrote about you and I got an A! Thank you, Iruka!"
He laughs and ruffles my hair.
"Don't thank me, Naruto. You're the writer. It was you're words that earned you this A."
He uses the fox magnet--my favorite--to pin the paper to his freezer door and I beam.
"Yeah, but I wouldn't have wrote it if I didn't have you."
Against the old white metal, my paper's scribbled title sits as perfectly as a teddy bear in a child's arms.
"Why my Neighbor Iruka Umino is Awesome
By Naruto Uzumaki"
I wrote those words in second grade, but I hadn't seen that paper for almost seven years until this morning when I found it slipped into one of my pockets.
Amazing what you're teachers will keep hanging on their refrigerators.
I cut off the sides carefully, mindful of the childish writing that pops out from between the lines. A little glue and some careful placement, and soon I have it settled in the early pages of my scrap book.
Right alongside my letter to the teacher about why "Icky-Sasuke-Bastard" should be kicked out of school.
Early one October morning, Kiba skipped, bounced, and lept into our circle, grinning like a clown.
"You are looking at the new, official boyfriend of the one and only Hinata Hyuuga--the most beautiful girl in the world!"
He then tells us all the fluffy details with pink cheeks and even Shino has to smile, if bitterly.
There is nothing more foreboding than standardized testing.
Rows upon rows of uniform desks like playing cards in a solitaire game. Chains of bubbles filled with letters from our childhood to match the impersonal and impassive question packets.
We spend hours in rooms with everyone we do and do not know, reduced to test scores and scribbling with number two pencils. It reminds me so much of cattle waiting in the pen before the slaughter, but this herd can think for itself, and in the silence it's not hard to picture students trying to remember tips and formulas they've been studying all their lives.
A cloud of fear hangs over the bovine heads before, during, and after--contemplating the outcome. Do or die; pass or fail; too high or low for what you dream of?
It doesn't matter if you can write a symphony or make your friends laugh so hard they cry; read, write, and do your arithmetic or you will fail in life.
That's what I've been told at least.
"AGGH! I cannot stand this! There are more numbers in my brain than in my text book!"
Lee may be able to punch a hole through a wall, but that boy is lucky he can count, let alone solve an algebraic equation.
We stride down the hall in pursuit of the gym, unsure if we'll be reprimanded for tardiness again or if traffic might be kind today and part to let us run through. At the same time, I listen to Lee whine, calmly assuring him that he will survive.
"You should pay Shikamaru to teach you. Or Shino. Both could give you some great tips. Though Shino would be your best bet. Shika might blow you off for that Temari chick."
Lee nods. "Yes. He has been spending a large amount of time with her lately. It is worrisome that he could be so close to her so fast. I do not think Chouji likes her very much."
Understatement of the century. If looks could kill, Shika would have been holding a mutilated corpse in the first week. Kankuro is no longer a part of our group. In the wake of his sister's attractions, he resigns himself to sitting under a tree across the field, sipping bitter bottles and stroking an old guitar.
I've heard tell that he's in a rock band.
We enter the mammoth gymnasium, and I'm grateful for the opportunity to relax as the nurse comes up to lecture us about sex.
Once you catch Kiba screwing behind the cafeteria, you'll find you don't need too much help on the subject.
I doze off for a few minutes while Lee rapidly writes notes, ears perked for anything that might help him woo a lady friend.
I doubt his ability to list STDs would help them see past that haircut.
About halfway through the lecture, I realize that I've left my English notes in Kakashi's class. This wouldn't be a big problem, except that Iruka shows no mercy for those who don't know pronouns, and I have a test in his class next.
Crap.
I groan and tell Lee to watch my stuff--I'm getting out for a minute.
I suppose I should be thankful that the bleachers are hollow under us and the top rows where we sit are so dark and crowded, the nurse is unlikely to see me as I slip through the steps like a snake, wandering the maze of metal bars to get to the side exit.
Being scrawny never hurts when escaping.
There's no one in the halls and the slap-slap-slap of my shoes are the only sounds to distract my thoughts from the distasteful person I must visit.
I don't know why Kakashi hates me. I didn't even know he existed until high school, but it seemed like he'd known about me long before we met.
He always sounds so nonchalant when he assigns unusually difficult projects for a health class, but he meets my eyes with a cold hatred every time I enter the room. I've tried confronting him about it, but each time he just reads his filthy porno book and turns a deaf ear until I get pissed and leave.
Finally, I come to a stop before Health 402.
The door is thick, but not thick enough to drown out the sounds of people talking, though the conversation is erratic and muffled.
Who would be visiting Kakashi-bastard? I grin.
Oh well. Any opportunity to fuck with him. Hope I'm interrupting something important.
I open the door and feel the smile fall off my face.
Crunch crunch, crumple, twist, ri-iiip.
I look down at the pile of confetti at my feet and the traces of paper that cling to my nails. My entire second grade page is ruined. Nothing survived.
I'll mourn for that loss later.
Breathe deep. Close eyes. Exhale. Slowly.
Laughs of the frightening kind curl around my open jaws like worms tunnelling towards the sky. A bitter taste is left behind as I rock back and forth, tears streaming, heart breaking in ways I didn't know existed.
A large hand caresses a tanned thigh. Moves up to support a slim back.
Remembering...always remembering...
A professional, if patchy blazer falls with a white shirt over a shoulder. My papers--my work, my words, and my thoughts--are flung to the ground in the frenzy.
As if I could forget.
His handsome face grins at me from around a neck and he laps at it lightly, like a kitten might lap at cream.
My stomach rolls. I heave.
The streamers of a tie knot around the back of his head, suggesting games I don't want to think about. He can't see me as the taller man flips him over.
I didn't know Iruka had a birthmark there.
"Ka-Kakashi!"
Vengeful, lustful, angry but laughing eyes look at me accusingly as sickening sounds fill the room. I know, when his teeth pull back in a snarl (one that looks more hateful than most) that this is all for me. They are fucking on my desk, after all.
They were lucky only I came down to visit.
Iruka begs like a dog. Begs for things that would make him blush later, I knew. Kakashi likes putting on a show for people; how else could you explain that self-satisfied smirk as he thrusts?
I didn't know I could run that fast. I never noticed how close I live.
"Who do you love?" Kakashi whispers, eyes never leaving mine.
"You!" Iruka cries, and I close the door quietly.
He knew. He knew I'd be there.
I stand up, ignoring the vomit (I'll clean it up later), move to the phone, dial. So mechanically.
The second tone, and he answers.
"Naruto."
"Gaara. You still need another man this weekend?"
I swear, you can almost hear that boy's mood switch to crazy.
"But of course," he half chuckles and I ignore the part of me that wants to run screaming.
"Meet me here."
"I'll bring you a gun."
I say nothing about that but thank him and hang up.
You win, Kakashi.
