World Painted Red

Author's Note:

To my beloved readers...I hope you find time in your busy schedules to take a glance at my story. I've worked very hard on the whole idea and hope that it's worthy enough for a few reviews and major hits. I'm not the best writer in the world, but I do enjoy it.

Alright guys, I'm done. Check it out, leave your opinions, and enjoy life.

Ciao

~O~O~O~O~O~O~O~O~O~O~O~O~O~O~O~O~

World Painted Red
By: Willow (too lazy to write my whole pen name...gee)

Prologue


I’m sure I could have come up with more creative methods, but what can I truly say?

I’m old fashion.

“Are you going to stop the bleeding?” I heard my conscious ask me in a panic breath.

The blood dripped on the floor from the deep knife wound on my wrist.

No.

I like seeing the color of my blood, feel the painful sting upon my wrist, and accept the idea of death that welcomed me with warm, loving arms.

I’m against the world, the harsh one outside my safe haven.

I can still hear the words of hatred and the longing glares for death to take me.

Fine, I would shout inwardly to the people. If you want me dead, I will die.

My wrist kept up the downpour, now I created a tiny pool. I could feel the thick liquid run down my leg.

Only minutes before I bleed out, seconds to reminisce on my hated life.

Don’t get me wrong, I use to love living. I had friends and a perfect family, everything a teenager like me should be grateful for.

I went to school, learned more about the world than many people knew. My teachers acknowledge me, the students loved me, and maybe a couple times in my life I actually dated really good guys.

So why am I sitting here, bullshitting on a life that isn’t even mines?

Iruka-sensei is right, I watch too much reality television that I’ve conjure up a fake allias to cover up the fact that I’m hated.

Hatred, I used to ponder on the meaning.

Denotation and connotation…

Generalization and specification…

Is it possible to be vague on such a word?

I could hear knocking. Someone must have noticed my absence. Should I move to be a proper host and answer the door?

I looked down at my wrist for the answer, vision doubled and breath laborious.

The answer was clear…or maybe unclear, vision just blurred. I’m not in the best shape right now.

“Go away.” The weak voice drawled out. I’m unsure whether I spoke out loud or my conscious echoed what I wished to say.

Wait…I did speak words that were barely understandable to the human ear, but someone replied to me. Panic…why must everyone associate things with panic?

“Naruto! Please, open the door?” cried the voice of my visitor.The knocking turned into pounding and I could heard the rapid beating of my dying heart.

I let out a chuckle, god why are people so commanding?

First, they tell me to die; now they want me to open doors.

The pool of my essences grew wider now, coating the white tile floor with red.

Ah…a world of red, I remember seeing a painting like that once. In a museum, my mind boggled.

It was nice. I don't really care for art...I'm more of a poet.

I'm rambling, must be from the lost of blood. Now I'm being rhetorical with just a hint of sarcasm. It feels good to chastise myself, reminding me why I'm doing this to begin with.

My vision drew dimmer, the darkness approached faster than expected. Well, it would seem my minutes are up.

I sighed...or groan agonizingly. Either way, it sounded beautiful.

I don’t remember what happened after, but the whole idea of dying wasn’t bad.

At least the smell of copper will be a welcoming feeling on my decent to hell.

No worries…Naruto Uzumaki always go out with a bang…literally.


TBC