Reminiscence

He doesn’t know when his life starts and his first memory begins. Can’t pinpoint the exact moment his brain starts registering the world around him long enough for instances to be engraved into the confines of his mind.

He knows, however, that the old, fraying walls that surround him have always been there. Like the discolored dents in the ceilings and the cracks that slither and twist into the worn wooden tiles of the floor, they persist and remain. He can’t remember a time when they weren’t there.

Somehow, the familiar sight of the chipped wallpaper each morning, comforts him.

Rubbing the sleepiness and blurriness out of his eyes, he shuffles out from under the ragged, scratchy cover. Reaching for something on his nightstand- he can never remember what- his hand and mind reach a standstill as he finds nothing to reach for.

His mind flashes to the nightmare he'd been fighting off just before his timely wake-up call. Slumping as the only thing that emerges from his memory is the ever-persistent acidic green light that has plagued his dreams for his entire life. At least this time, there was no hissing or screaming accompanying it.

His feet dangle from his bed and he has to scoot closer and hop down the structure. Conscious of his small stature as he hits the floor. The wood beneath his bare feet is cold to the touch, rough, and uneven.

His one-bedroom apartment feels way too big and empty. The silence that accompanies these early hours of the dawn makes the hair on his skin stand on end. Realistically, he knows that just within a few minutes the noises will begin to emerge along with the waking world. The stray dog that passes his street every day will bark at everything that moves. Just like the neighbors next door will start their screaming match, either ending with loud, slammed doors or even louder creaks in the woodwork.

Nevertheless, he knows better than to disregard his few minutes of peace before the chaos. So, with light, tired steps, he waddles into the tiny kitchen, pulling the stool beneath the sink until it's positioned right in front of it, and wastes no time climbing it.

Its height is, thankfully, perfect for him to be able to reach the faucet comfortably. His fingers stretch towards the toothbrush nestled safely within his favorite mug, going through the familiar motion of brushing his teeth without conscious thought.

The water in his bathroom sink has been out for a few weeks now. He's come to learn to live around the things that mysteriously fail to work in his apartment. His landlord- he learned the hard way- was not overly eager to be disturbed. He thanks whatever luck he has that his shower's water, albeit cold and icy, still runs relatively well.

Rinsing his mouth one last time, he hops down from his perch, kicking the stool until it slides under the stove.

He doesn't climb it though, instead, he marches to the fridge, peering inside to gauge the state of his remaining supplies. The groceries that used to mysteriously pop up once a month for as long as he could recall suddenly stopped showing up a few weeks ago. A few weeks after his fifth birthday, to be more precise. Instead, a monthly allowance had been popping up on his counter. The perpetrator never left any trace of their presence and he quickly learned to ignore it, else the intrusions drive him crazy. He suspects it’s the masked men’s work. Anbu, he thinks he heard them being referred to as.

It didn’t take long for him to find out, however, that the money he got would do him no favors. On the very rare occasion that any vendors agreed to sell him anything, they tripled the price on everything he even dared to look at.

He’s been rationing what little he had left ever since.

His stomach rumbles at the thought, and he fishes the lonely egg from its plastic confines. He walks towards the stove, holding his find carefully so as not to drop it.

Making breakfast is a mundane affair, cooking has always been something he knew instinctively how to do. He doesn’t know how he’s come to discover the intricacies of the culinary field, nor does he recall anyone ever teaching him. Yet, he finds solace in the moments he spends making himself meals. Something in his mind stirs at the thought as if rebelling against the mere notion. A now familiar fog engulfs his senses for a few seconds and he has to physically shake the suspension. Distantly, he’s aware of the flickering lights that start acting up around him. They tended to do that from time to time, coincidently when he was lost in thought.

It feels as though something is trying to claw itself to the surface of his mind, failing miserably even as it gets closer to success with each attempt.

The only people he’s met were the orphanage workers and the old man that sometimes checks up on him on occasion.

He’s never been particularly comfortable around the man. He knows he must be someone important to the village, someone in a position of great power, if the guards that shadowed him were of any indication.

Despite the relative calm and caring aura that surrounded the older man, Naruto’s instincts never let him relax in the other’s presence. Silent alarms blaring in his mind, as if to ward him off of something. Somehow, it feels as though he’s falling into a familiar pattern, a path he’s already walked.

Turning the scrambled dish in its pan, he reflects on his current situation. He needed to go out and find himself something to eat, he didn’t particularly look forward to going hungry.

Turning the fire off, gripping the handle of the pan tightly he carefully climbs back down. Small hands shake at the weight as he balances himself down and towards the small table he's set in the middle of the room.

The egg is perfectly cooked, even though it lacks the proper spices. It disappears way too early for his taste. Leaving a longing ache for more in its wake.

As he goes through the automatic motions of cleaning up, he wonders if other five-year-olds had to worry about the things he does.

If they too, spent their time alone, and unsupervised.

Swallowing back the lump he feels forming at the base of his throat, he tries to reason with himself.

Realistically, he knows that he was not like other children his age. Knows that his mind worked differently. Understands that very few, if any at all, woke up screaming in the middle of the night because of terrors they barely remembered while conscious.

He wonders if any of them went through life with as much hatred and contempt following in their wake.

He sees it in the eyes that peered down at him wherever he dared to go. Notices it in the dark gazes that followed his every move, as if waiting for him to jump out and- and do something. Anything to justify their hatred and cruelty.

He’s also come to realize that he knows things others his age, shouldn’t- couldn’t know. Notices it in the way he finds himself muttering in a language he’s never heard spoken out loud before, by anyone other than himself.

Reading and writing in the language spoken around him has never been easy. Having to teach himself through eavesdropping and hard-earned book scavenging hadn’t exactly been a walk in the park.

According to the old man, he was to start going to the Ninja academy in a few months. The entire concept had just been so foreign and novel that he hadn’t known how to react.

He realizes now that he’s never been given a choice in the matter. It seemed that even his life wasn’t his own to control.

Sighing heavily, he shuffles back into his room. Pulling off his clothes he pulls up his only other pair. Glad he’d remembered to wash them the night before.

The white shirt is faded at the edges, leaning into a lighter grey color from overuse. He wonders if the old woman living downstairs would be alright with giving him some of her grandson’s hand-me-downs.

His shorts on the other hand are still in relatively good condition. The black color has only dulled slightly in the years he's been wearing it.

Satisfied with his outfit, Naruto wanders towards his front door, pulling on his black jacket from its perch on the bench near the entrance. He makes quick work of unlocking the three locks adorning his door, while he's slipping on his sandals. He double-checks every lock before leaving. Not that he had anything of value to steal. Yet, he learned the hard way that even the most useless procession would get damaged if left unsupervised and unprotected.

He does his best to ignore the blaring red graffiti etched into his door. Resolving himself to scrub it off later. The word ‘MONSTER' has always been something the world associated with his existence it seems.

He’s just glad it wasn’t anything worse.

Shaking off the morbid thoughts, he dashes down the stairs, making sure to look carefully at where his feet land to avoid tripping or falling.

The streets are packed by now, villagers coming to and from places with purpose in their steps. He thinks he would've enjoyed watching them go about their day if he thought his presence would be welcomed.

He hasn’t been spotted yet, he knows. For no sneers have been directed at him yet from the people around him.

Picking up his feet, he scurries between the masses, trying to gauge the relative mood of the vendors around him. Reading people has always been something that came naturally to him. He can know almost instantly whether he was going to be hit or just yelled at. The best outcome he can think of was to be completely ignored. He could work with that. Some even let him buy his needs without interference, as long as he made sure to pay at least double the price.

Stuffing his hands into his pockets, he tries to make himself look small, or more accurately smaller. Wishing for the umpteenth time that his features weren’t so recognizable. His spiky golden hair clashed horribly with the surrounding colors, the whisker marks etched into his skin only serving to make him stand out more.

Pulling up his hood, he burrows into the color of his jacket, trying his best to sink into himself.

The shop he decides to venture into is on the smaller side. Manned by a thin, wiry man. The clerk doesn't spot him immediately, and he counts that as a win, as it lets him pick out two apples in peace. He’s reaching for a tangerine when a hand clamps down on his shoulder. His body is pulled around so fast it almost makes him dizzy, making him drop one of the apples in his effort to keep himself upright.

“What the hell do ya think you’re doing brat?!” The exclamation is so loud it instantly draws a crowd. The words get stuck in his throat as he feels the stares being directed at his side.

“I- I was just p-picking what I wanted to buy-" His voice is scratchy from disuse, rough, and stuttering as he tries to explain.

"Don't lie to me boy, that dirty hood of yours ain't fooling no one." The bony hand comes up so fast he doesn't have time to flinch away as harsh fingers pull on his jacket, catching onto his hair roughly in the process of exposing his blond locks to the onlookers. "Freaks like you ain't welcome here. Don't think you can just come in and rob me." His voice gets louder with each word, making him shrink into himself even more.

By now, the crowd gathered around them had started to echo the vendor's words, throwing their own outraged exclamation in turn.

Dropping the remaining apple from his hold, he dashes out of the place, gaze trained on his ratty sandals the entire way. Tears of humiliation prickle at his blue eyes and he finds himself ready to burst.

He doesn’t notice the pair of steely dark eyes that follow his retreat, expression serious and stormy as he looks on.

The word ‘freak’ echoes in his mind, resounding over and over again like the sound of a broken record. A voice, one associated with big, meaty arms and disgusting breath barrels to the forefront of his thoughts. A suppressed memory he doesn’t know the origin of. The man’s features are blurry and fogged over, the only clarity comes from his mouth, as he spits out hateful, but familiar words.

His feet lead him to the forest as if on autopilot. He ducks under the branch coming his way on habit alone, jumping over the small stream and skidding across the rough dirt as he delves deeper into the greenery and foliage.

Soon enough he finds himself in front of a familiar lake. One he’s been frequenting for many months now.

Maybe he can catch himself a fish or two for dinner. He’s done it before, he recalls.

Remembers the first time he met the old man here, one of his first fond memories. Even if the man hadn’t shown him any similar sympathies after that night.

Kicking at a wayward rock, he settles onto the riverbank. Content to just sit and burrow into the warmth of his jacket, listening to the stream as it goes by before him.

Maybe he really was a freak.

Letting his body fall back, his back hits the grass beneath him. His eyes feeling heavier the longer he held his position. Maybe he could rest his eyes just a little while.

______________________________________

When he wakes up, the sun had already disappeared from the sky, and a cluster of dark clouds decorate the air above him in its stead. It takes him a moment to remember where he was and he shivers as his body registers the rising cold that permeates the atmosphere. His toe curl in a futile effort to chase some warmth as he rises from the ground.

His stomach rumbles loudly and he mourns the loss of opportunity. He doubts he’ll find any fish at this hour. Curling into himself as a strong wind rages by, he clutches at his middle and begins his trek back home.

Maybe he should’ve left half of the egg for tonight.

Drops of water start to rain down, marking the way for a heavier flow almost instantly after. Grumbling at his horrible luck, he hurries along the forest floor. Conscious of the slippery mud beneath his feet. If he falls down and hurts himself, no one will be there to look for him.

Loneliness creeps under his skin at the mere thought, sticking to him like the dirt underneath his fingernails.

After what feels like hours but couldn’t have been more than a few minutes, he finally emerges from the green trail. The roads are empty except for a few running stragglers, trying to get home before the storm intensifies.

Water soaks him to the bone and the chill clings to his very being.

Previously, he’d made it a general rule not to wander Konoha’s streets at night. The drunken hollers he hears as he walks, coupled with the darkness that seems to slither into every nook and cranny, only serve to prove his assessment right.

Thankfully, the rain deters any malicious attempts on his person, small mercies he figures.

It’s as he’s crossing through the road leading to his neighborhood that he finds himself pausing.

A delicious smell wafts through the air, so strong it breaks through the prominent smell of wet wood and rain. His stomach grumbles louder than ever and he finds his feet subconsciously leading him toward the smell.

A small shop with the name ‘Ichiraku’ turns out to be the culprit. A tiny, shack-like hut that seems so comfortably warm and inviting.

His eyes squint at the orange light of the room. An old man stands inside, wiping down the counter and humming to a song Naruto has never heard before.

His stomach chooses to make itself known then, begging for attention. He feels his cheeks heat up despite the cold, as the man’s eyes rise and widens as they meet his own, embarrassed and panicked gaze.

Naruto doesn’t wait for the man to react. He knows what happens next, he doesn’t need another physical example. So, despite his entire being screaming at him to go inside and eat, he forces his body to move. Urging his feet to keep walking in the opposite direction.

He thinks he hears protests coming from inside the hut but chalks it up to his hunger-driven imagination.

By the time he makes it to his neighborhood, the rain has abated. Even if the icy cold air remains. He hopes that despite everything, he won’t get sick. His immune system has never betrayed him before, he hopes it doesn’t choose to do so now.

Walking up the stairs to his apartment fills him with relief. Although the hope for a hot shower is naïve, he at least can look forward to getting out of his soaked clothes.

What makes him pause, however, is the small package he finds resting on his doormat. His first instinct is to leave it there, hesitant to approach it at all. However, after a few seconds of inspection, his curiosity wins out and he finds himself crouching down and tentatively opening the paper bag. He ducks as he does so, as if expecting a kunai or a stray paper bomb to suddenly erupt out of its confines. When nothing happens, he hesitantly opens one eye, followed by the other a moment later.

Was this?

Feeling a strange sense of detachment, he pulls out the items from within their resting place. Eyes wide and mesmerized at the sight. Looking left and then right, he stuffs them back inside and hurries to unlock the door and dash inside. Frantic as he locks the door behind him, double and triple checking that all the locks are all in place.

Breathing out a heavy sigh, he slowly opens the bag back up, as if expecting this all to be some kind of trick.

Yet, despite all odds, the three apples and the two tangerines remain where he last saw them. As real as the tears that well up in his ocean eyes, spilling out for the first time today.

He feels the emotions he’s been stifling crash down on him as he slides down to the floor. Unbothered by the small puddle of rainwater that's slowly forming around his soaked form.

Was this real?

Taking a fragile hold of the red, so red it seems too real, apple, he brings it up to his face. A distant part of him, one he wants to stifle down and bury deep inside, wonders if it's poisoned. Maybe this was it, the point of no return. Maybe some villager has had it with their resident freak and decided to finally finish the job.

A larger part of him thinks that maybe it would be okay.

Before he can overthink it, he bites into the fruit, tearing up at the wonderful taste that explodes his taste buds. His mind wars with itself, torn between finishing the treat as fast as possible, lest it disappears. And hiding it away for safekeeping at a later date.

He resigns himself to eating only one for now. Knowing fully well that he might not find any other sustenance for a while.

Thanking whatever act of kindness he’s been subjected to, he resolves to take full advantage of it. If only he knew who did it, in order to thank them.

When his stomach settles and his nerves subside he finds that he feels lighter than before. He takes a shower and sleeps almost soundly that night.