Lost

Author's Note:  Please Note: Naruto's age in this fic is 18. He is considered a legal adult at 20. I'm also using the Japanese school system which is why he'd still in high school.

Warning:: A very Dark fic!!! Although Suicidal themes are present; this is NOT a death fic. No Beta.

Summary: Naruto’s ready to die, but then something unexpected occurs... SasuNaru

(This starts out slow, put I promise SMUT by chapter 2)

 

Lost

 

Written By: Crimson2006

 

Prologue

 

He doesn’t know why he’s there, swathed among a fixation of false hope; surrounded by tall oriented walls, stained glass windows and burning candles. Perhaps he comes out of habit. Drawn from days when he was younger and the world appeared less heavy. Back then, everything had seemed so simple. As if life was forged from the pages of a story book; each day ending with a ‘happily ever after.’ But that was just an ostensible image and he knows that now. For every moment of happiness there comes a price. For everyday spent free, there is the penitence of subjugation.

 

Still, he sits there among the pews. Knees resting on a soft cushion below; hands folded and eyes closed. Not wanting faith, but still craving the purity that one receives when being delivered from sin.

 

In truth, there are so many things he wants to say to this god. An endless list of cruel words spun from a lifetime of pain. But why should he waste his time? Where was god when he was suffering? When his body was trembling, bleeding, and screaming for a blissful release? God didn’t exist then. And yet the youth’s there now. He feels so confused. The emptiness is eating him alive and it’s been so long since he’s dispelled a real smile and even longer since he’s actually wanted to.  

 

Standing up, his feet take flight automatically. The memories of his life are burning, tearing into his soul; the sadness seeping out, flowing from his beautiful charismatic orbs, down his cheeks and onto he floor. The need to be closer, to be free…it’s rolling higher. But the cost for such salvation is peaking as well. Can this god save him even when he doesn’t believe? And if it refuses, is there another that will?

 

A month rolls by and still nothing changes. He finds himself standing in front of the old cathedral once again—too often for his liking, and yet not often enough in some bitter way. The days all seem to mesh together and he wonders sometimes if he’s even left the spot at all. The madness is thickening and yet it swirls so fluently that it confuses him further. Dose he want to be saved, is that why he comes? Or is it something else? Is he asking for permission to die? He doesn’t know, and the capability to feel on that level has long ago dissipated, leaving him even more empty and soulless then before.

 

On the outside though, even to the most well trained eye, he appears well-put-together. This is an illusion, one he’s learned to draw very well; masking the true ambitions of what his heart really feels to what’s expected of him. In so many ways the years of loneliness have taken their toll –stripping away the image of what he should be, contorting into the one that he keeps hidden behind the mock smile that he draws so smoothly—practiced and perfect. His attendants is good, grades exceptional; yet for every accomplishment he slips a little further, regressing back into an open darkness.

 

He likes to think that perhaps it’s because nobody’s noticed—his sadness left wavering in an untold secret among unseen eyes. But that’s not the truth, and he knows it. Instead his weight is not over-looked, but simply drawn out for the amusement of others. The satisfaction of peers, the persecution of strangers—but most of all, his suffering is mandated for his step-father’s enjoyment.

 

It is this discrimination which is the most detrimental; not for the properties of its hatred, but for the lack of compassion forged between the two. There is no, ‘I love you’ from father to son and there never has been. Only words of divine punishment and hate –of anger and rage that exceeds all limitations. To this man, his father, he is but a failure. There are no words the boy can say that will free him from these bonds. Just as there are no deeds or kindly placed action that are worthy of his fathers praise. It’s from these roots of long ago misplaced hope, that his darkness first becomes vivid—a struggle within him self to carve the right path in the world, without losing his own soul in the process.

 

But just being aware of this darkness is not enough. For even the strongest of people can get lost; stagger away from the road of endurance to fall helplessly into the endless wastelands. Uzumaki Naruto is no different. His tragic soul has been wandering back-and-fourth in-between these two elements for years. The path which was once so bright and joyous; now withered away with the deliverance of time. He’s lost count as to how many times his feet have stumbled, how often that darkness has invited him to stay within in its cold grasp. Somehow, though, he always manages to find his way back to that dingy, dirt road of fortitude and hope. Very well aware that each time he returns the path has gotten a little bit smaller.

 

One day he knows, it will completely disappear.

 

This is a fact that doesn’t bother him nearly as much as it should. He’s content with the idea of death because there is no pain in the nothingness. His step father can not hit him. Those hands that bruise his flesh and scar his mind – just as the man scars his body when that rage has been pushed to its limit– have no say in the afterlife. Naruto doesn’t have to do anything to trigger his father’s wrath, but he suffers from it just the same. First with words, then with hands and lastly by the defilement of his body. He’s been raped countless times, but that fact too, much like the prospect of death, seems less significant. Suicide offers him a way to escape this pain; but the act in itself goes against the boy’s morality. He knows that he’s weak, but he will not become that weak—not until there is no sanity left to save him.

 

Sadly, he knows that such a day is fast approaching. His mentality weaving in and out of awareness like the way that one transcends from reality into a dream like state and then back again. The transaction is smooth but not consciously willing. It simply just happens and that scares him a little because he can’t control it. Still, it's the only thing that he can control.

 

He has no friends. His step-father will not tolerate them. Not that it matters because most people shun him. He’s a little different then everyone else. A coin that’s double printed on both sides. Defected and yet somehow still useable. He supposes that it has something to with his outer image. Over the years he has perfected and masked so many of his flaws; easily showing one face without faltering and then expelling another just as smoothly. It’s impossible for people to see his real pain. But because they can’t see, they wrongly persecute him. As a result he’s portrayed as the ‘perfect’ image, something that might be worshiped if not for the animosity within the prospect. All the world sees is his perfect attendance, wealth and smiles—happiness. And they loathe it. Yet unknowing to outsiders, the front is a reflex—because if Naruto has to stop pretending then he’ll have to start living and he has way too many scars to survive something so detrimental.

 

Still, he can not allow other people to see this dysfunction –he can not be weak so he forces himself to be strong– playing a cheerful role, to which he is hated for. In the reflection of it all, he wonders if his peers see the irony in his actions, that he can’t live with the truth and yet he’s constantly punished by the lie. He doubts that they can comprehend such a notion because that would require selflessness, which goes against their standard of conduct.

 

Over the years he’s come to expect the hate from his peers, just as he expects it from his teachers as well. But life has often taken on the recreation of mocking him; throwing him a bone only for him to discover that all the meats been stripped away. And that’s why he’s surprised when one of the teachers inquires about his bruises in his third year of high school. He brushes it off though, milks it with a lie that seems acceptable and he is good at lying so he expects it to work.

 

It doesn’t.

 

Surprisingly the same teacher asks again. And again. And again. And eventually Naruto gives in; spilling his whole life story and sparing none of the details. He cries like a baby, his mind bordering the limits of its fragile state; as if he were paper thin and his own voice a flame that slowly burns away his soul.

 

So many things are said and yet left unsaid. And as the two of them sit there the man, his teacher and savior, offers no words to sooth his aching heart, but rather leans over and kisses his tears away. It’s wrong, Naruto knows, but that doesn’t stop him from letting it happen. In truth, he’s afraid. Not so much so because the teacher’s hands quickly began disrobing him, but because the touch is different—soft, gentle, he almost wants to be touched like that. And that thought is truly frightening.

 

One year passes with the same ease that an alcoholic downs a hard shot of liquor. The taste rather satisfying and yet there’s always just a little bit of burn to counter it. Three times a week Naruto makes his way through the crowded corridors of the school. Past the gym, student store and quad; to the tiny room with the bright blue door, the numbers 203 printed in dusty white letters. He’s no longer a student to this teacher and yet he arrives punctually on these marked days. Part of it maybe out of obligation or common courtesy, but secretly he wants to feel something; needs to know that he’s still alive and real. As much as the sex saves him though, it damns him all the same. It isn’t forced, or angry or hateful –but it damages his psyche nonetheless; trading one burden for another—a lesser sin for something greater. He knows he’s being used. That he’s simply a ‘convenience’ as one might put it. But at least he’s needed, if only for sex. It makes him feel like a whore. But at least he feels something.

 

Today though, it’s different. Today as he pulls up his pants, exits the familiar room and walks off campus towards the church, he feels something odd stir inside him. Perhaps it’s his final thread of sanity slipping away. He can’t be sure. He supposes that insanity probably works that way though. It slowly infects you and then at the last moment constricts around your heart, insuring your demise. Nothing in particular has to set if off and that only makes him believe that such an enactment is true. He’s spent all these years teetering on the edge and maybe it’s finally time that he takes the final steps to fall. There are no regrets when this thought hits him. No urgent flood of panic; tears or protests. He’s simply willing to accept it as his fate. Sure there things that he will never get to do, but he can live out his whole life, die at a ripe old age, and still bear testimony to that same statement. He sees no difference. Today or ten years from now, he’s still going be empty. Activities such as traveling, skydiving or going to the beach to watch the sunset won’t change any of it.

 

On some twisted level, Naruto has to admit that the latter of those three things dose sound nice. He’s never seen the beach before and somewhat wishes that he could see it now—feel the hot sand under his bare feet, and then the cold water rush over him. He wants to walk into the oceans depths and let the waves carry him away. Death by asphyxiation. It doesn’t sound very intriguing, but if Naruto could have his choice of death, then he would happily lose his life in the deep blue ocean.

 

The closest beach is three days away though, so he has no possible way of getting there. Accepting this bitterly, he opens the doors to the church and settles for this place instead. It’s dark inside, quiet like a tomb. Naruto now realizes why he likes it so much. It was never god that he was looking for –although that was the original reason why he had come– but it’s the silence and emptiness that he craves, it makes him feel at home, as if he has a right to be there.

 

Walking up the center the blonde notices that there’s no one else there, but there never is. Technically he thinks that the place is probably condemned, as he’s only seen a priest there once, and nobody else is ever present. Naruto can’t say that he minds the lack of people; he actually enjoys it. Whereas solitude bothers most people, he takes pleasure in it. His own persecution no where near as scornful as what other people present him with. There’s also the setting to consider as well. The place has a rustic feel to it, something with age and experience.

 

Taking the time to consider the matter, he vaguely recalls that when he was younger the church was victim to a fire. The back and right panels of the cathedral suffering major damage before the firefighters could quench the flames hunger. The structure since then underwent repairs; but even now, Naruto can still see remnants of the incident –scars that are worked into the foundation, forever leaving the memories there. Naruto likes to think that if the building had a soul, then their pain would be similar. Years of being used, secrets whispered, promises kept, pain received or delivered and confessions spewed—yes, the blonde honestly believes that he can relate to the four cold walls that are encircling him now. They are the same: cold, abandoned and forgotten.

 

Strangely and yet somehow expectantly, he does not move to sit down as he passes the last set of pews, his feet swiftly roaming by them with grave eagerness. Instead, he makes his way to the staircase that spirals upward in the far corner. He’s only ventured up top once and it was after a particularly harsh beating from his step-father; one that he tries not to reminisce about because of how many punches he took and how deeply his soul was hurt.

 

But once the motion starts, it flows water, and fate compels his mind to succumb to that clockwork setting. The gears shifting backwards as he takes no satisfaction in recalling the blind rage twisted in his drunken father’s eyes or the pain that he endured while ruthlessly being plowed into. That night his tears fell from his eyes like the swift inking of a well crafted suicide note, and yet he desperately rose above that pain to find a place of peace—this church with its dim candle light and faded glass windows. But even then with all things bearing, death did not accept him; his sanity still weakly transpiring against him.  

 

Today though, no matter what, Naruto’s determination will not let him be hindered. He can feel the beast of suffering stir deep inside him, a hungry rage that wants to find peace. Unknowingly he is crying, his body shaking and stomach twisting in knots as each step is taken. Although he senses the warm salty tears on his face, his mind dose not register the actually notion of grief. 

 

Yes, this is the end. He is sure of it now. Not stopping, his feet move on auto-pilot, maneuvering from the steps to the hallway and through the office. His tanned hand reaching out to tug on the door handle, a chill of pleasure crawling through his body as the door is pulled open and the beautiful sight of a sunny afternoon washes into view. It’s a breathtaking sight and he smiles. His last smile and ironically it is a real one. It's accompanied by a feeling that he hasn’t experienced in so long that he’s almost forgotten how it feels. Happiness; a somewhat perverse aspect of it that’s been demented through insanity, but still it is happiness nonetheless.              

 

Stepping outside he is ready to leave the pain behind, but he freezes on the spot when he realizes that somebody else is already there.

 

 

Author’s Note: Change of perspective for the next chapter