Categories > Anime/Manga > Naruto > Painting The White To Gray
STORY TITLE: Painting the White to Gray
CHAPTER TITLE: Boys Don't Cry
AUTHOR: Oturan Ikamazu
RATING: T (rating may increase in further chapters)
WARNING: Suicidal tendencies, self-mutilation, pervert-Kakashi, angst-Naruto, Naruto POV. Also, since I didn't put it up earlier, it's AU in a high school setting.
STORY SUMMARY: Sometimes, pain is unbearable, and people need a way to escape. But different people cope in different ways.
CHAPTER SUMMARY: Naruto's mother comes to visit, but it's an unfortunate meeting.
DISCLAIMER: I own nothing that isn't mine. (If I did, I'm scared of what kind of characters I'd turn Naruto and Sasuke into. Scary thought, ne?)
AUTHOR'S NOTE: I get a lot of inspiration for this story from depressing and uplifting songs, depending on the lyrics. And I also draw a lot of it out of experience and personal feeling. The second half of this chapter I wrote while extremely depressed. Of course, I had to stop a few times to stop myself from screaming - or going to find something extremely tall to jump from.
Anyway, on with the story!
-
The only antidote to mental suffering is physical pain.
-- KARL MARX
-
Friday brought even more unwanted stress. In the morning, I didn't fell so well, and the moment I woke up, I was positive something bad was going to happen. I could feel it in my very bones. I was almost scared to face the day.
But I left for school anyway, saying my ritualistic farewell to Kakashi as I went. The confrontation between Sasuke and me had been on my mind since it had happened. He hadn't told me why he'd done it, but I wasn't about to push at him; that would only worsen what little bit of a friendship we had.
I could hardly believe I had told him, and I almost regretted it. But I was sure no harm would come from it. Despite the fact that he acted all surly and mean, I'm certain he was nice and understanding deep down inside - granted, he probably wasn't warm and fuzzy like the stuffing of a teddy bear.
As I was stepping outside - it was a nice day, with birds singing, green leaves rustling in the wind, a nice sky line stretching out over the horizon - I saw I woman I hadn't thought I'd see for a long time. She was my mother, and she was crying, holding herself, mascara running down her cheeks; even her ruby-red lipstick was smudged.
I'd never seen her like this before, not since her sister had died, but they'd hated each other anyway, ever since my aunt had stolen Mother's main love interest. I think that maybe Dad had been sleeping with her too.
She was crying, and as soon as she saw me, she rushed over, sobbing and trying her hardest to form a sensible sentence; she tried to hug me, to hold me, but I wouldn't let her that close. She hadn't been there for me, I wasn't about to be there for her.
"Your father," she stuttered out, jaw quivering as she averted her eyes - just like she always did. She'd never been able to look at me, especially after my "accident", as they liked to call it.
She continued, trying to rub away the already smeared make-up. "Your father fell down the stairs," she sobbed, her voice raising considerably, her back shaking. She looked like she was about to collapse, but for some strange reason unknown to me, it all looked so fake. "He's in a coma," she finished, finally, for once, looking at me, if only to see my reaction.
But I didn't show any. She'd pushed him, though it may have been an "accident", I knew she'd pushed him - it was another of their little disputes that never turned to hitting, merely pushing and shoving, voices getting louder and louder till the neighbors began to wonder who was getting murdered, who was getting into trouble.
I stood still, a blank look on my face, staring at her as though I didn't care that she'd almost killed Dad - and I didn't, not really. This was her problem, not mine. I wasn't going to deal with it - I'd dealt with enough already.
Her rage was rising, her face becoming more and more red - she was like a kettle, ready to blow at any minute, fuming and loud.
"Why don't you care!" she screamed, throwing her little fists into my chest. It hurt, it would probably bruise, but I didn't care, not then, not ever. I frowned at her, showing only part of the hate I felt for her and Father, and she backed off, shock and surprise written all across her thin face.
And she didn't have to hide it, didn't try. She was scared of me, that maybe I would be like Father, only take it a step farther and bloody her nose, black her eye, try to break her wrist - but I wasn't anything like them, and I promised myself I never would be.
"Why don't you cry?" She was desperate for any other reaction, but I wasn't going to let her have it - I wouldn't give her the sick satisfaction. "He's your father! And he's probably dying. Why don't you cry!"
I looked at her, this time showing nothing, not hate, not sadness, not love or anger or pity - nothing. But I did wonder why I wasn't crying - I wasn't taught to. Father had always said it, said that I wasn't allowed to cry; it wasn't proper, only girls cried. So that's what I told Mom, without emotion, the way Dad had always talked to me.
"Boys don't cry," I said, voice quiet, dangerous almost. "Isn't that what Dad always said?"
I refused to speak to her anymore, but I didn't have to. Kakashi came out of the apartments, curious as to the commotion, the screaming and the yelling and the crying. He nodded for me to go, so I left, not looking back at my mother - Kakashi knew who it was, he could handle her.
As I left, I was sure I heard police sirens coming nearer. I could only hope that they were after my mother, but a part of me was scared that they really were. I felt like crying, but I was going to school - just when I needed to be alone, too.
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I skipped most of school, choosing instead to sit alone in the boys' bathroom, huddled into myself. Several times people walked in, but most of them didn't notice me. I'm sure at least one of them had told the principal, or Iruka-sensei perhaps. It didn't matter, because I wanted to be alone - I didn't want to talk to anybody, though I'd told Iruka that I would if I ever needed to.
But I just didn't feel like it - I was tired, I was crying, and I wanted to... I don't know. I needed to something, anything, I just didn't know what exactly.
My family had never treated me nicely, especially my mother, though she liked to think she did. She couldn't even look me in the eye when I'd needed her most - what kind of mother did that? To just abandon her child like that - it's not something a good mother would do.
To Dad I was always a mistake - I couldn't do anything right, I wasn't supposed to be a boy, I was lazy, an idiot, a stupid child who shouldn't even have been born. The fact that I didn't kill myself was just another sign that I was destined to fail - was I really meant to never succeed?
It's something I found myself asking often. As far as they were concerned - as far as I was concerned - I had never succeeded. Not once, not even by accident. And maybe they were right. Maybe I shouldn't be allowed to live.
It would make everybody feel better - no one would have to put up with me anymore. They'd all be free of my burden - even Kakashi and Iruka, who seemed to genuinely like me. I was sure they'd be the only ones to miss me - though Kiba, Haku, and Lee might, but it wasn't likely.
In fact, I wouldn't have been surprised if nobody missed me - Mother and Father surely wouldn't. But I wanted them to - they were supposed to miss me if I was gone, if I was dead, they were supposed to cry when I tried to kill myself, they were supposed to teach me things, not shoot down my every hope like it didn't matter.
But that's what they'd done - I was never good enough, and I never would be. It was as easy as that, though I wished it wasn't. I wished there was something wrong with them, so I wouldn't have to be alone, so that they had a reason to hate their own son.
But I knew I'd never get that wish - it wasn't possible; they hated me of their own free will. And I think I'd known it all along, though it hadn't really been something I'd like to have acknowledged.
When I had, however, it had seemed too much to take in all at once. I wasn't able to handle it, so I took a knife to my wrist, I'd fallen down, and realized all over again that they didn't love me, but I didn't feel it like I had the first several thousand times.
The physical pain, I'd realized, was taking away the mental pain I was feeling. The same type of emotions I was feeling in the boys' bathroom. My eyes unconsciously roamed the expanse of the room, looking for something - anything - sharp, but I found none.
It didn't bother me that while I was doing what I was planning it was a possibility that someone might walk in. I just couldn't take it anymore - I wanted this all to end as quickly as possible. I didn't want to let it rot inside me like it had been - that would do no good.
There was nothing sharp, just hard, hard surfaces and water. I didn't want to drown, or try it - it would hurt too much, having my lungs fill up with water while I was still awake, feeling each and every breath of air return only with the water from the faucet. It wasn't a very delightful thought at all.
But hard surfaces worked well, too - it was a different kind of pain, the kind I needed, if only for a little while. Without thinking, my fist slammed into the stall door, rattling the lock. My fourth hit broke it, crashing the door open, shaking on its hinges.
My next target was the counter, fist down slamming into it as hard as I could. Blood was running down my hand, my knuckles already bruising, my wrist and forearm already shocked with lances of pain. It felt good - it felt really good.
I was so concentrated on the pain, in fact, that I completely ignored the entrance of the bathroom, the door slowly opening while I was fighting with any hard surface I could find.
Someone was watching me, and I hadn't even realized it.
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To Be Continued...
-
Thank you for the reviews! Thank you so very much! You're all so very nice!
CHAPTER TITLE: Boys Don't Cry
AUTHOR: Oturan Ikamazu
RATING: T (rating may increase in further chapters)
WARNING: Suicidal tendencies, self-mutilation, pervert-Kakashi, angst-Naruto, Naruto POV. Also, since I didn't put it up earlier, it's AU in a high school setting.
STORY SUMMARY: Sometimes, pain is unbearable, and people need a way to escape. But different people cope in different ways.
CHAPTER SUMMARY: Naruto's mother comes to visit, but it's an unfortunate meeting.
DISCLAIMER: I own nothing that isn't mine. (If I did, I'm scared of what kind of characters I'd turn Naruto and Sasuke into. Scary thought, ne?)
AUTHOR'S NOTE: I get a lot of inspiration for this story from depressing and uplifting songs, depending on the lyrics. And I also draw a lot of it out of experience and personal feeling. The second half of this chapter I wrote while extremely depressed. Of course, I had to stop a few times to stop myself from screaming - or going to find something extremely tall to jump from.
Anyway, on with the story!
-
The only antidote to mental suffering is physical pain.
-- KARL MARX
-
Friday brought even more unwanted stress. In the morning, I didn't fell so well, and the moment I woke up, I was positive something bad was going to happen. I could feel it in my very bones. I was almost scared to face the day.
But I left for school anyway, saying my ritualistic farewell to Kakashi as I went. The confrontation between Sasuke and me had been on my mind since it had happened. He hadn't told me why he'd done it, but I wasn't about to push at him; that would only worsen what little bit of a friendship we had.
I could hardly believe I had told him, and I almost regretted it. But I was sure no harm would come from it. Despite the fact that he acted all surly and mean, I'm certain he was nice and understanding deep down inside - granted, he probably wasn't warm and fuzzy like the stuffing of a teddy bear.
As I was stepping outside - it was a nice day, with birds singing, green leaves rustling in the wind, a nice sky line stretching out over the horizon - I saw I woman I hadn't thought I'd see for a long time. She was my mother, and she was crying, holding herself, mascara running down her cheeks; even her ruby-red lipstick was smudged.
I'd never seen her like this before, not since her sister had died, but they'd hated each other anyway, ever since my aunt had stolen Mother's main love interest. I think that maybe Dad had been sleeping with her too.
She was crying, and as soon as she saw me, she rushed over, sobbing and trying her hardest to form a sensible sentence; she tried to hug me, to hold me, but I wouldn't let her that close. She hadn't been there for me, I wasn't about to be there for her.
"Your father," she stuttered out, jaw quivering as she averted her eyes - just like she always did. She'd never been able to look at me, especially after my "accident", as they liked to call it.
She continued, trying to rub away the already smeared make-up. "Your father fell down the stairs," she sobbed, her voice raising considerably, her back shaking. She looked like she was about to collapse, but for some strange reason unknown to me, it all looked so fake. "He's in a coma," she finished, finally, for once, looking at me, if only to see my reaction.
But I didn't show any. She'd pushed him, though it may have been an "accident", I knew she'd pushed him - it was another of their little disputes that never turned to hitting, merely pushing and shoving, voices getting louder and louder till the neighbors began to wonder who was getting murdered, who was getting into trouble.
I stood still, a blank look on my face, staring at her as though I didn't care that she'd almost killed Dad - and I didn't, not really. This was her problem, not mine. I wasn't going to deal with it - I'd dealt with enough already.
Her rage was rising, her face becoming more and more red - she was like a kettle, ready to blow at any minute, fuming and loud.
"Why don't you care!" she screamed, throwing her little fists into my chest. It hurt, it would probably bruise, but I didn't care, not then, not ever. I frowned at her, showing only part of the hate I felt for her and Father, and she backed off, shock and surprise written all across her thin face.
And she didn't have to hide it, didn't try. She was scared of me, that maybe I would be like Father, only take it a step farther and bloody her nose, black her eye, try to break her wrist - but I wasn't anything like them, and I promised myself I never would be.
"Why don't you cry?" She was desperate for any other reaction, but I wasn't going to let her have it - I wouldn't give her the sick satisfaction. "He's your father! And he's probably dying. Why don't you cry!"
I looked at her, this time showing nothing, not hate, not sadness, not love or anger or pity - nothing. But I did wonder why I wasn't crying - I wasn't taught to. Father had always said it, said that I wasn't allowed to cry; it wasn't proper, only girls cried. So that's what I told Mom, without emotion, the way Dad had always talked to me.
"Boys don't cry," I said, voice quiet, dangerous almost. "Isn't that what Dad always said?"
I refused to speak to her anymore, but I didn't have to. Kakashi came out of the apartments, curious as to the commotion, the screaming and the yelling and the crying. He nodded for me to go, so I left, not looking back at my mother - Kakashi knew who it was, he could handle her.
As I left, I was sure I heard police sirens coming nearer. I could only hope that they were after my mother, but a part of me was scared that they really were. I felt like crying, but I was going to school - just when I needed to be alone, too.
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I skipped most of school, choosing instead to sit alone in the boys' bathroom, huddled into myself. Several times people walked in, but most of them didn't notice me. I'm sure at least one of them had told the principal, or Iruka-sensei perhaps. It didn't matter, because I wanted to be alone - I didn't want to talk to anybody, though I'd told Iruka that I would if I ever needed to.
But I just didn't feel like it - I was tired, I was crying, and I wanted to... I don't know. I needed to something, anything, I just didn't know what exactly.
My family had never treated me nicely, especially my mother, though she liked to think she did. She couldn't even look me in the eye when I'd needed her most - what kind of mother did that? To just abandon her child like that - it's not something a good mother would do.
To Dad I was always a mistake - I couldn't do anything right, I wasn't supposed to be a boy, I was lazy, an idiot, a stupid child who shouldn't even have been born. The fact that I didn't kill myself was just another sign that I was destined to fail - was I really meant to never succeed?
It's something I found myself asking often. As far as they were concerned - as far as I was concerned - I had never succeeded. Not once, not even by accident. And maybe they were right. Maybe I shouldn't be allowed to live.
It would make everybody feel better - no one would have to put up with me anymore. They'd all be free of my burden - even Kakashi and Iruka, who seemed to genuinely like me. I was sure they'd be the only ones to miss me - though Kiba, Haku, and Lee might, but it wasn't likely.
In fact, I wouldn't have been surprised if nobody missed me - Mother and Father surely wouldn't. But I wanted them to - they were supposed to miss me if I was gone, if I was dead, they were supposed to cry when I tried to kill myself, they were supposed to teach me things, not shoot down my every hope like it didn't matter.
But that's what they'd done - I was never good enough, and I never would be. It was as easy as that, though I wished it wasn't. I wished there was something wrong with them, so I wouldn't have to be alone, so that they had a reason to hate their own son.
But I knew I'd never get that wish - it wasn't possible; they hated me of their own free will. And I think I'd known it all along, though it hadn't really been something I'd like to have acknowledged.
When I had, however, it had seemed too much to take in all at once. I wasn't able to handle it, so I took a knife to my wrist, I'd fallen down, and realized all over again that they didn't love me, but I didn't feel it like I had the first several thousand times.
The physical pain, I'd realized, was taking away the mental pain I was feeling. The same type of emotions I was feeling in the boys' bathroom. My eyes unconsciously roamed the expanse of the room, looking for something - anything - sharp, but I found none.
It didn't bother me that while I was doing what I was planning it was a possibility that someone might walk in. I just couldn't take it anymore - I wanted this all to end as quickly as possible. I didn't want to let it rot inside me like it had been - that would do no good.
There was nothing sharp, just hard, hard surfaces and water. I didn't want to drown, or try it - it would hurt too much, having my lungs fill up with water while I was still awake, feeling each and every breath of air return only with the water from the faucet. It wasn't a very delightful thought at all.
But hard surfaces worked well, too - it was a different kind of pain, the kind I needed, if only for a little while. Without thinking, my fist slammed into the stall door, rattling the lock. My fourth hit broke it, crashing the door open, shaking on its hinges.
My next target was the counter, fist down slamming into it as hard as I could. Blood was running down my hand, my knuckles already bruising, my wrist and forearm already shocked with lances of pain. It felt good - it felt really good.
I was so concentrated on the pain, in fact, that I completely ignored the entrance of the bathroom, the door slowly opening while I was fighting with any hard surface I could find.
Someone was watching me, and I hadn't even realized it.
-
To Be Continued...
-
Thank you for the reviews! Thank you so very much! You're all so very nice!
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