Falling Snow
I remember the first time I was beaten so horribly I almost truly died.
It was winter and for the last time, there had been snow. Real snow, not mushy kind that melts the moment it hits the ground. To someone like me, who in all my five years had never even heard of snow, it was fascinating, terrifying, saddening and beautiful all at the same time. Cold too of course.
Ever since then, even though it's never snowed again, winter has always been my favourite season.
०౦ംഠ०҆'˚'҅०ം◦∙ × ∙◦ം०҆'˚'҅०౦ംഠ०
They broke him they say.
Nobody knows how or why, but they did. In one pain filled instant, a mere child at their feet, they had his glass body and shattered it with their hands.
Nobody knows if the shattering left shards of glass in their hands. Everybody thinks it did. The glass wormed its way into their pretty little bodies and tore them open, left them splayed across the ground, eyes forever open and mouths stretched in a never ending silent scream.
Everybody knows they were the first in a long line of his promised revenge.
०౦ംഠ०҆'˚'҅०ം◦∙ × ∙◦ം०҆'˚'҅०౦ംഠ०
I love the way the cold tickles your nose when you first step out and when it clears, the air is fresh and frozen, untarnished by the horrors in my world. Sometimes the wind is too cold and slides through my clothing, biting into my skin but I don't care. It only reminds me some part of my being still lives on. I love the blinding white sheen when the sun, only a feeble, distant star in the pale blue sky, shines onto the snow. You wake up and look out your window to see the newly fallen snow, perfect and beautiful, waiting for itself to be inevitably ruined by the beings it so similar to. A part of you wants to be the one that first ruins it because you think it will be fun, but another part, a smaller part, a truly human part, tries in vain to stop you with its frail pleadings because it doesn't want you to ruin the unspoiled white.
Nobody ever listens to their truly human part though, do they?
But my most favourite thing about winter is the icicles that hang from every tree and rooftop. The sun reflects through them creating intricate patterns of dancing light on the ground, and to look at the icicles directly is like seeing a row of stars in the day.
Nobody knows I know these about winter though and that's alright with me.
०౦ംഠ०҆'˚'҅०ം◦∙ × ∙◦ം०҆'˚'҅०౦ംഠ०
It's cold. It's so cold. Like a blizzard happening inside of his body, ripping him apart at the seams.
He can hear their screams through a layer of snow on top of him as he licks the sanguine liquid off of the icicle melting in his hand. It slithers down his throat reluctantly, a liquid never meant to be taken in this manner, sending cold shivers of delight down his throat, down his back, settling in his groin.
He giggles, an insane, unnatural sound that allows the cold inside of him to grow and the snow to thicken.
"Can you hear it?" he whispers to the pretty little boy before him, all nice and strung up and cold and still alive. "Can you hear their screaming voices and cries of revenge on the wind? They're coming, closer and closer, and we'll burn in the fires of Hell soon… can you feel it, my little raven?"
And the pretty little raven boy, all nice and strung up and cold and alive lifts his head. He can't help but laugh at the look the pretty little boy gives him. It is full of disbelief and pain of the loss of a love the raven never knew he had.
His cold hard lips crack as he smiles again – not a true smile because he is too cold to smile for real and he's not even sure if what's happening is happening – but he is oblivious to the blood that trickles from his twisted, dagger filled mouth.
०౦ംഠ०҆'˚'҅०ം◦∙ × ∙◦ം०҆'˚'҅०౦ംഠ०
Just like nobody knows, despite what I say, I did die under the snow that day. Some might laugh and tell me I'm being ridiculous, that I'm just being an idiot at as always. They can see me standing right here. But they misunderstand.
No, I did not die that day. How could I? You see me standing right here. The real Naruto Uzumaki, the boy you think you see, died that day. And I took his place.
Every waking moment I can feel it, the snow covering my five year old body, half of it red, half of it newly fallen pristine white. I feel the weight of it, pushing me down, trapping my tainted form deeper in its pure darkness. I feel the almost numbed pain pulsing through my body, clinging to it because if I let go, I'll be numb forever. I feel the cold slowly grow and take over, freezing my bones, stiffening my limbs, shutting down my brain bit by bit.
I feel myself die.
०౦ംഠ०҆'˚'҅०ം◦∙ × ∙◦ം०҆'˚'҅०౦ംഠ०
He smiles but his eyes do not shine. He laughs but no sound passes from his lips. Secrets can only be kept for so long, especially when they come gift-wrapped in a disarming smile.
But still he is too cold as they hurt and they scream and they beg. He's been so cold for so long and so much darkness has surrounded him that he doesn't know if what he does even happens anymore.
०౦ംഠ०҆'˚'҅०ം◦∙ × ∙◦ം०҆'˚'҅०౦ംഠ०
The snow melted that same day. Or maybe died is a more appropriate term.
Snow itself should be considered a living thing. We shape it and it shapes us. Snow is us. We are snow. We shape ourselves. No matter how many times we blame it on other people, it's always us that makes the decision. Nobody can mould your snow. Who we are is up to us. Just like our shapes in the snow.
०౦ംഠ०҆'˚'҅०ം◦∙ × ∙◦ം०҆'˚'҅०౦ംഠ०
He knows what they once thought of him. Number one knucklehead ninja. Of course the scarecrow, all pretty and strung up and cold and not scared now, didn't know that name was the first even remotely affectionate thing he had ever been called. For a while, the snow began to melt.
But then he left and the pressure has been building non-stop ever since in a haze of blood red irises and slit like pupils.
०౦ംഠ०҆'˚'҅०ം◦∙ × ∙◦ം०҆'˚'҅०౦ംഠ०
To you, maybe, the snow died that day, never to fall from the heavens again as I lay in the half red, half white puddle of melted snow.
To me, it hasn't stopped snowing for thirteen years and I'm still lying in the half red, half white pile of snow. I'm still dying.
०౦ംഠ०҆'˚'҅०ം◦∙ × ∙◦ം०҆'˚'҅०౦ംഠ०
They hated him because of it. They never said it but he had learned how to read a person's thoughts from their eyes. Only his scarecrow and his grandma and his white haired, perverted father, strung up and cold and not scared now, didn't truly resent him for his failure.
His broken promise.
०౦ംഠ०҆'˚'҅०ം◦∙ × ∙◦ം०҆'˚'҅०౦ംഠ०
Even now I can feel it, the pressure growing ever more, always pushing me further and further into the darkness, always freezing my body into numbness, always shutting down my brain – my knowledge, my promises, my soul – bit by bit.
०౦ംഠ०҆'˚'҅०ം◦∙ × ∙◦ം०҆'˚'҅०౦ംഠ०
And he thinks of all this as he smiles but doesn't notice the blood running down his chin and stares at his pretty little raven, all nice and strung up and cold and alive and this means he kept his promise in the end.
"Run, run as fast as you can and hide your head in the darkness, but you'll never escape them now; walking corpses, the both of us, and they're coming to drag us into the fires of Hell," he laughs insanely and the little raven whimpers in fear that he hates to show.
०౦ംഠ०҆'˚'҅०ം◦∙ × ∙◦ം०҆'˚'҅०౦ംഠ०
And I'm sorry. I'm so sorry.
Because I let the snow cover me.
०౦ംഠ०҆'˚'҅०ം◦∙ × ∙◦ം०҆'˚'҅०౦ംഠ०
His eyes turn to his scarecrow and his grandma and his white haired, perverted father and he remembers how they were scared of him. They didn't like who he really is. They wanted 'Naruto' back.
But he never existed! Weak little Naruto with his delusions of justice and dreams of glory – he never existed, just like none of this exists in reality!
But it's all okay now because they're all nice and strung up and not scared anymore.
०౦ംഠ०҆'˚'҅०ം◦∙ × ∙◦ം०҆'˚'҅०౦ംഠ०
I'm sorry I didn't reach out. I didn't ask for help. I didn't ask to be saved.
०౦ംഠ०҆'˚'҅०ം◦∙ × ∙◦ം०҆'˚'҅०౦ംഠ०
"N-Naruto…" the raven whispers and his face twists in anger because that. Isn't. His. Name.
०౦ംഠ०҆'˚'҅०ം◦∙ × ∙◦ം०҆'˚'҅०౦ംഠ०
I'm sorry because Naruto Uzumaki has been dead for thirteen years now.
०౦ംഠ०҆'˚'҅०ം◦∙ × ∙◦ം०҆'˚'҅०౦ംഠ०
"He's dead! That stupid little boy you thought I was died thirteen years ago!"
०౦ംഠ०҆'˚'҅०ം◦∙ × ∙◦ം०҆'˚'҅०౦ംഠ०
I'm sorry it never stopped snowing.
०౦ംഠ०҆'˚'҅०ം◦∙ × ∙◦ം०҆'˚'҅०౦ംഠ०
He glares at his little raven, his brother, his friend, his companion, his rival, his hate, his love, his anger, his happiness, his heartbreak… his not-quite-broken promise.
"I loved you," he whispers, a trace of the old one, the dead one slipping through. "The snow was melting, I thought I could live again but then you left,"
And his anger suddenly grows until he's the blond-turned-demon once more and he cackles insanely. "And you can feel it! They want us, they sing for our blood and our corpses all strung up and pretty and cold and dead! But they don't see the bigger picture do they? All the pretty corpses and the dead gathering in the darkness, in a sea of blood and despair – the future of this twisted little world that we live in, a massacre of every living creature."
०౦ംഠ०҆'˚'҅०ം◦∙ × ∙◦ം०҆'˚'҅०౦ംഠ०
I'm sorry for what I've done.
०౦ംഠ०҆'˚'҅०ം◦∙ × ∙◦ം०҆'˚'҅०౦ംഠ०
"You know that, don't you? We're one and the same – demons hiding in the guise of a lowly human – and when they come, we'll both burn forever and ever as they watch and laugh at our corpses. Don't you see my little raven? We're hopelessly blind to everything until the very end, ruined beyond recognition, and there's no returning to the past no matter how much you want to take everything back. Nowhere to hide and nowhere to run – all we can do is stand and watch as they approach us, no longer human and no longer identifiable with what we used to be, who we used to be."
०౦ംഠ०҆'˚'҅०ം◦∙ × ∙◦ം०҆'˚'҅०౦ംഠ०
But most of all?
०౦ംഠ०҆'˚'҅०ം◦∙ × ∙◦ം०҆'˚'҅०౦ംഠ०
They've come.
They're here.
And they're too late because his little raven… his little raven isn't afraid anymore.
०౦ംഠ०҆'˚'҅०ം◦∙ × ∙◦ം०҆'˚'҅०౦ംഠ०
I'm sorry for not being sorry anymore.
०౦ംഠ०҆'˚'҅०ം◦∙ × ∙◦ം०҆'˚'҅०౦ംഠ०
And he turns and smiles with his cold hard bleeding lips and he looks at the headbands that hold the leaf insignia that symbolize the village he burned and knows that he finally won.
He got his revenge. He kept his promise.
So with the smile still on his lips and his raven and his scarecrow and his grandma and his father all pretty and nice and strung up and cold and not scared anymore, he raises up the icicle and brings it slashing down one final time.
०౦ംഠ०҆'˚'҅०ം◦∙ × ∙◦ം०҆'˚'҅०౦ംഠ०
"You did it?"
"…yes,"
"Why?"
"…because the snow was starting to fall on you too,"
-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------
Not part of any series. I just ended up writing this!
Enjoy.
I remember the first time I was beaten so horribly I almost truly died.
It was winter and for the last time, there had been snow. Real snow, not mushy kind that melts the moment it hits the ground. To someone like me, who in all my five years had never even heard of snow, it was fascinating, terrifying, saddening and beautiful all at the same time. Cold too of course.
Ever since then, even though it's never snowed again, winter has always been my favourite season.
०౦ംഠ०҆'˚'҅०ം◦∙ × ∙◦ം०҆'˚'҅०౦ംഠ०
They broke him they say.
Nobody knows how or why, but they did. In one pain filled instant, a mere child at their feet, they had his glass body and shattered it with their hands.
Nobody knows if the shattering left shards of glass in their hands. Everybody thinks it did. The glass wormed its way into their pretty little bodies and tore them open, left them splayed across the ground, eyes forever open and mouths stretched in a never ending silent scream.
Everybody knows they were the first in a long line of his promised revenge.
०౦ംഠ०҆'˚'҅०ം◦∙ × ∙◦ം०҆'˚'҅०౦ംഠ०
I love the way the cold tickles your nose when you first step out and when it clears, the air is fresh and frozen, untarnished by the horrors in my world. Sometimes the wind is too cold and slides through my clothing, biting into my skin but I don't care. It only reminds me some part of my being still lives on. I love the blinding white sheen when the sun, only a feeble, distant star in the pale blue sky, shines onto the snow. You wake up and look out your window to see the newly fallen snow, perfect and beautiful, waiting for itself to be inevitably ruined by the beings it so similar to. A part of you wants to be the one that first ruins it because you think it will be fun, but another part, a smaller part, a truly human part, tries in vain to stop you with its frail pleadings because it doesn't want you to ruin the unspoiled white.
Nobody ever listens to their truly human part though, do they?
But my most favourite thing about winter is the icicles that hang from every tree and rooftop. The sun reflects through them creating intricate patterns of dancing light on the ground, and to look at the icicles directly is like seeing a row of stars in the day.
Nobody knows I know these about winter though and that's alright with me.
०౦ംഠ०҆'˚'҅०ം◦∙ × ∙◦ം०҆'˚'҅०౦ംഠ०
It's cold. It's so cold. Like a blizzard happening inside of his body, ripping him apart at the seams.
He can hear their screams through a layer of snow on top of him as he licks the sanguine liquid off of the icicle melting in his hand. It slithers down his throat reluctantly, a liquid never meant to be taken in this manner, sending cold shivers of delight down his throat, down his back, settling in his groin.
He giggles, an insane, unnatural sound that allows the cold inside of him to grow and the snow to thicken.
"Can you hear it?" he whispers to the pretty little boy before him, all nice and strung up and cold and still alive. "Can you hear their screaming voices and cries of revenge on the wind? They're coming, closer and closer, and we'll burn in the fires of Hell soon… can you feel it, my little raven?"
And the pretty little raven boy, all nice and strung up and cold and alive lifts his head. He can't help but laugh at the look the pretty little boy gives him. It is full of disbelief and pain of the loss of a love the raven never knew he had.
His cold hard lips crack as he smiles again – not a true smile because he is too cold to smile for real and he's not even sure if what's happening is happening – but he is oblivious to the blood that trickles from his twisted, dagger filled mouth.
०౦ംഠ०҆'˚'҅०ം◦∙ × ∙◦ം०҆'˚'҅०౦ംഠ०
Just like nobody knows, despite what I say, I did die under the snow that day. Some might laugh and tell me I'm being ridiculous, that I'm just being an idiot at as always. They can see me standing right here. But they misunderstand.
No, I did not die that day. How could I? You see me standing right here. The real Naruto Uzumaki, the boy you think you see, died that day. And I took his place.
Every waking moment I can feel it, the snow covering my five year old body, half of it red, half of it newly fallen pristine white. I feel the weight of it, pushing me down, trapping my tainted form deeper in its pure darkness. I feel the almost numbed pain pulsing through my body, clinging to it because if I let go, I'll be numb forever. I feel the cold slowly grow and take over, freezing my bones, stiffening my limbs, shutting down my brain bit by bit.
I feel myself die.
०౦ംഠ०҆'˚'҅०ം◦∙ × ∙◦ം०҆'˚'҅०౦ംഠ०
He smiles but his eyes do not shine. He laughs but no sound passes from his lips. Secrets can only be kept for so long, especially when they come gift-wrapped in a disarming smile.
But still he is too cold as they hurt and they scream and they beg. He's been so cold for so long and so much darkness has surrounded him that he doesn't know if what he does even happens anymore.
०౦ംഠ०҆'˚'҅०ം◦∙ × ∙◦ം०҆'˚'҅०౦ംഠ०
The snow melted that same day. Or maybe died is a more appropriate term.
Snow itself should be considered a living thing. We shape it and it shapes us. Snow is us. We are snow. We shape ourselves. No matter how many times we blame it on other people, it's always us that makes the decision. Nobody can mould your snow. Who we are is up to us. Just like our shapes in the snow.
०౦ംഠ०҆'˚'҅०ം◦∙ × ∙◦ം०҆'˚'҅०౦ംഠ०
He knows what they once thought of him. Number one knucklehead ninja. Of course the scarecrow, all pretty and strung up and cold and not scared now, didn't know that name was the first even remotely affectionate thing he had ever been called. For a while, the snow began to melt.
But then he left and the pressure has been building non-stop ever since in a haze of blood red irises and slit like pupils.
०౦ംഠ०҆'˚'҅०ം◦∙ × ∙◦ം०҆'˚'҅०౦ംഠ०
To you, maybe, the snow died that day, never to fall from the heavens again as I lay in the half red, half white puddle of melted snow.
To me, it hasn't stopped snowing for thirteen years and I'm still lying in the half red, half white pile of snow. I'm still dying.
०౦ംഠ०҆'˚'҅०ം◦∙ × ∙◦ം०҆'˚'҅०౦ംഠ०
They hated him because of it. They never said it but he had learned how to read a person's thoughts from their eyes. Only his scarecrow and his grandma and his white haired, perverted father, strung up and cold and not scared now, didn't truly resent him for his failure.
His broken promise.
०౦ംഠ०҆'˚'҅०ം◦∙ × ∙◦ം०҆'˚'҅०౦ംഠ०
Even now I can feel it, the pressure growing ever more, always pushing me further and further into the darkness, always freezing my body into numbness, always shutting down my brain – my knowledge, my promises, my soul – bit by bit.
०౦ംഠ०҆'˚'҅०ം◦∙ × ∙◦ം०҆'˚'҅०౦ംഠ०
And he thinks of all this as he smiles but doesn't notice the blood running down his chin and stares at his pretty little raven, all nice and strung up and cold and alive and this means he kept his promise in the end.
"Run, run as fast as you can and hide your head in the darkness, but you'll never escape them now; walking corpses, the both of us, and they're coming to drag us into the fires of Hell," he laughs insanely and the little raven whimpers in fear that he hates to show.
०౦ംഠ०҆'˚'҅०ം◦∙ × ∙◦ം०҆'˚'҅०౦ംഠ०
And I'm sorry. I'm so sorry.
Because I let the snow cover me.
०౦ംഠ०҆'˚'҅०ം◦∙ × ∙◦ം०҆'˚'҅०౦ംഠ०
His eyes turn to his scarecrow and his grandma and his white haired, perverted father and he remembers how they were scared of him. They didn't like who he really is. They wanted 'Naruto' back.
But he never existed! Weak little Naruto with his delusions of justice and dreams of glory – he never existed, just like none of this exists in reality!
But it's all okay now because they're all nice and strung up and not scared anymore.
०౦ംഠ०҆'˚'҅०ം◦∙ × ∙◦ം०҆'˚'҅०౦ംഠ०
I'm sorry I didn't reach out. I didn't ask for help. I didn't ask to be saved.
०౦ംഠ०҆'˚'҅०ം◦∙ × ∙◦ം०҆'˚'҅०౦ംഠ०
"N-Naruto…" the raven whispers and his face twists in anger because that. Isn't. His. Name.
०౦ംഠ०҆'˚'҅०ം◦∙ × ∙◦ം०҆'˚'҅०౦ംഠ०
I'm sorry because Naruto Uzumaki has been dead for thirteen years now.
०౦ംഠ०҆'˚'҅०ം◦∙ × ∙◦ം०҆'˚'҅०౦ംഠ०
"He's dead! That stupid little boy you thought I was died thirteen years ago!"
०౦ംഠ०҆'˚'҅०ം◦∙ × ∙◦ം०҆'˚'҅०౦ംഠ०
I'm sorry it never stopped snowing.
०౦ംഠ०҆'˚'҅०ം◦∙ × ∙◦ം०҆'˚'҅०౦ംഠ०
He glares at his little raven, his brother, his friend, his companion, his rival, his hate, his love, his anger, his happiness, his heartbreak… his not-quite-broken promise.
"I loved you," he whispers, a trace of the old one, the dead one slipping through. "The snow was melting, I thought I could live again but then you left,"
And his anger suddenly grows until he's the blond-turned-demon once more and he cackles insanely. "And you can feel it! They want us, they sing for our blood and our corpses all strung up and pretty and cold and dead! But they don't see the bigger picture do they? All the pretty corpses and the dead gathering in the darkness, in a sea of blood and despair – the future of this twisted little world that we live in, a massacre of every living creature."
०౦ംഠ०҆'˚'҅०ം◦∙ × ∙◦ം०҆'˚'҅०౦ംഠ०
I'm sorry for what I've done.
०౦ംഠ०҆'˚'҅०ം◦∙ × ∙◦ം०҆'˚'҅०౦ംഠ०
"You know that, don't you? We're one and the same – demons hiding in the guise of a lowly human – and when they come, we'll both burn forever and ever as they watch and laugh at our corpses. Don't you see my little raven? We're hopelessly blind to everything until the very end, ruined beyond recognition, and there's no returning to the past no matter how much you want to take everything back. Nowhere to hide and nowhere to run – all we can do is stand and watch as they approach us, no longer human and no longer identifiable with what we used to be, who we used to be."
०౦ംഠ०҆'˚'҅०ം◦∙ × ∙◦ം०҆'˚'҅०౦ംഠ०
But most of all?
०౦ംഠ०҆'˚'҅०ം◦∙ × ∙◦ം०҆'˚'҅०౦ംഠ०
They've come.
They're here.
And they're too late because his little raven… his little raven isn't afraid anymore.
०౦ംഠ०҆'˚'҅०ം◦∙ × ∙◦ം०҆'˚'҅०౦ംഠ०
I'm sorry for not being sorry anymore.
०౦ംഠ०҆'˚'҅०ം◦∙ × ∙◦ം०҆'˚'҅०౦ംഠ०
And he turns and smiles with his cold hard bleeding lips and he looks at the headbands that hold the leaf insignia that symbolize the village he burned and knows that he finally won.
He got his revenge. He kept his promise.
So with the smile still on his lips and his raven and his scarecrow and his grandma and his father all pretty and nice and strung up and cold and not scared anymore, he raises up the icicle and brings it slashing down one final time.
०౦ംഠ०҆'˚'҅०ം◦∙ × ∙◦ം०҆'˚'҅०౦ംഠ०
"You did it?"
"…yes,"
"Why?"
"…because the snow was starting to fall on you too,"
-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------
Not part of any series. I just ended up writing this!
Enjoy. 
