Disclaimer: I do not own the anime/manga Naruto, nor any characters pertaining to it.

Author's Note: This is pretty standard for me. It's drabble-ish and short, but guess what? I breached the 1000-word mark! For the first time in any of my stories! Ever! Now, I know that may not seem a very large achievement to all you lovely people, but believe me when I say I'm about to die with pride for myself :D My brain is like, retarded or something. So for me, this effing awesome.

Sunlight, red behind his eyelids. He needs to get up, he remembers, and he does exactly that. The world spins (it's been a while) and his mouth feels cotton and dry. Then he's heading for the bathroom and thinking wryly that Sakura was right, he should have put the alcohol away at 10 rather than 2 in the morning. Too bad he's never been very good at taking direction from others. He's stubborn, they say, he's a clown, they say, and it's not unlikely that he agrees with them in the tiniest dark places of his mind where he keeps his sarcasm and hope, hoarded away for when he leaves this place; this place he protects on the days he wears the white mask he keeps in his bedside drawer.

Second from the bottom, grinning at him like everything's alright.

This is not his home though. Home is where the heart is, they say. Well if that's the case, Naruto doesn't think he has a heart. It's nowhere, it never was. Thoughts like these make him angry, make him want to run to the ends of the earth and explore the world outside of this place where the blood of enemies and comrades doesn't run so close and thick that you have to kill both to stay alive.

He's in the bathroom. He's just downed two tablets dry.

12-Adult: 1-2 caplets every 4-6 hrs with water as required (maximum 8 caplets in 24 hrs)

He twists the right faucet, bends and splashes water across his face, crisp and refreshing. Looking up, he sees nothing but the chipped, yellowing paint of his bathroom wall; it's been a while since he's had himself to look forward to in the morning; his fist had removed the mirror years ago. He recalls the stinging sensation and the satisfaction. He's never regretted it. More over, he'd do it again – and again and again and more. Because there's not much he garners satisfaction from these days. Everything feels sour, from his own smiles, to the smiles of others, to the blood he reaps in every hit he gives and each one he takes.

It's amusing, he thinks, he's fairly sure he's not at the age yet in which life begins to take things rather than give. He is, however, at an age in which bitterness is an option to choose rather than one pushed upon him, and he can't help but yearn to resent the only world he's ever known. Being a ninja isn't all it's cracked up to be, he thinks wryly and then laughs like it's the funniest thing he's ever heard. And in truth, it is. So funny, in fact, that he's left bowed over his bathroom sink, chest heaving and tears pricking the back of his eyelids.

Finally, he straightens and walks out the bathroom door, hiccuping every so often but pushing it down, pushing it away so he isn't forced to think any longer on how fucked up his life is. Toast sounds good, he thinks while scratching at his belly. It's soft and he knows if he looks down he'll see it's tanned. He also knows what it looks like when he's using chakra. He knows what it feels like too. Exhilaration, adrenaline and then rage after he's lost control – shame would be next on the list, but that's not for now, that's for nights like last night, and another of those won't be coming around for a while now.

Once every 3 months he lives like there aren't any consequences. He's forgets he has to look after his world, and for roughly 8 hours there is nothing and no one but himself.

He never remembers much of what he does, and all he does recall is banished from is mind as soon as he realises its lingering. He always washes as soon as he gets home, regardless of his state of mind or inebriation, scrubbing so hard sometimes he wakes up with skin still raised red and raw. Regardless, it doesn't hurt nearly as much as his insides, but that pain's a constant; something his conscious shies away from whenever he accidentally lets his mind wander.

It's hard not to let his mind wander though, it's his nature, in his very being; he lets his mind wander so he doesn't have to watch the people around him pretending everything's alright; so he doesn't have to come to terms with the fact he's also pretending everything's alright. It's the circle of my life, he thinks while buttering his toast, and starts laughing once again. I'm on a roll today, is his next thought before he stems the tide of mirth. He has a funny feeling he wouldn't have been able to stop if he kept on.

He finishes with the peanut butter and starts to screw the cap back on, stops because it's gone on wonky, unscrews it, starts again, and puts in back in the pantry. The knife gets tossed haphazardly into the kitchen sink and then he's sitting on his lumpy green couch, munching on what he suspects he won't remember later.

--

He's walking down the street heading for the training grounds. He can faintly hear the trees rustling from the park a ways over and only then does he take notice of the crisp wind racing across his flesh, leaving a trail of goosebumps like footprints on skin. It almost feels good, concentrating on the tiny pinpricks of sensation caused by his wayward locks and the slow shiver that makes its way down his spine, equal in time with the chill permeating his bones. A storm's coming; he can smell it in the air, the tang of approaching clouds as easily distinguishable to him as the scuff of his sandals against concrete. And so he keeps on walking.

He can hear the others sharing the street with him. Every tiny movement, insignificant as it may be, rings crystal clear through his ears. Such is the vigilance with which he regards his surroundings, the result of focus and years of back breaking training sessions.

He wishes he was like everybody else.

They're watching him. He's a fool, they say, he's a dreamer, they say, and he knows for a fact he agrees with them now that he's old enough to understand the fairytales he used to dream of don't fit nice and square into the life he leads. He's a five year old trying to finish a jigsaw puzzle, desperately and repeatedly trying to shove the last piece into an empty space that just doesn't seem to hold quite right. He'll turn it a different way –

Maybe this angle will work

– and then try again – and again and again and more. Because although life has started taking things too early, he still has his determination to live up to, his hope to hoard away, his friends to grin his sour grins at, his white mask to hide behind, his shame to keep for special nights, and the world will keep on turning like everything's alright.