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He was four and there were whispers, prodigyprodigyprodigy.
He was four and the world was bright.
He was four and his biggest worry was a bad grade.
He was four and he wanted to be just like Tou-san!
He was four and the headband gleamed as it slid over his eyes, too big for his head and not at all made for a child.
He tried to ignore the looks of pity.
He was five and there were whispers, traitortraitortraitor.
He was five and the White Fang was a disgrace.
He was five and there was blood.
He was five and he was alone.
He was five and the hallways once full of laughter were desolate, the only remnants of life were the faded pictures and the acrid scent of blood.
He was six and there were whispers, disgracedisgracedisgrace.
He was six and all that mattered were rulesrulesrules.
He was six and he had nothing, he was nothing, his family was trash, and he was scum.
He was six and they were screaming, “Disgrace!”
He was six and they were throwing things at him.
He was six and the apartment was empty, no one would see the way he had to clean rotten fruit off his clothes.
The lastlastlast. WHEREISTHEPACK?! WHEREWHEREWHERE.
gone dead not here
AbaNdonED
They all forgot he was only a child.
He was eight and there were whispers, wasteoftalentwastewastewaste.
He was eight and there was a man.
He was eight and the man smiled down at him, “Hello, I am Namikaze Minato.”
He was eight and the man was the first person to smile towards him in over a year.
The others had desecrated the Hatake Compound and beat him till there was more bruises than skin.
He was twelve and there were whispers, thiefthiefthief.
He was twelve and the Uchiha wanted blood.
He was twelve and they demanded he die, a thief, stealing their precious bloodline, hoping to discovers all their secrets and tear them apart.
He was twelve and they eyed him like fragile glass.
He was twelve and he glared right back with eyes too old for a child, but war does things like that, doesn’t it? Chokes innocence until it dies, smothers freedom like a caged bird, and breaks apart lives like twigs blowing in the wind.
He was thirteen and there were whispers, friendkillerkillerkiller.
He was thirteen and he agreed with them. Just another name to add to the truths.
He was thirteen and the rumors were back. Hatake, the disgrace, the traitor, the friend killer, just like his father.
He was thirteen and he eyed the blade.
Just like his father, huh?
He put it away for another day.
He was fourteen and there was...silence
He was fifteen and there was laughter.
It was his.
Mad laughter, shattering the silence, hysterical and there were tears in his eyes.
He sobbed.
He screamed.
He was fifteen and there was glass on the floor, in his arms, his legs, his stomach.
Fascinating, he eyed the blood with muted feelings like a blanket had smothered his emotions and all he could do was admire the red.
His wrists burned and he licked his dried lips.
He liked the pain, it made him feel alive.
He was fifteen and he was alive.
He wished he wasn’t.
He was sixteen and there was nothing.
Desolate, emotionless, he was the perfect shinobi.
He was the most imperfect human.
He was sixteen and there was a toddler in his arms, blue eyes stared back at him and a single tear slid down his face, soaked into his mask.
Too much, too soon.
The scars in his heart were stitched with shaky hands and teary eyes. It was messy and done too quickly.
They split open and he ran.
He was sixteen and he couldn’t help but thumb a piece of glass with a thoughtful look.
Gai asked why his wrist was bleeding.
He gave no answer.
He was eighteen and there was...hope?
He was eighteen and there he was.
He was eighteen and the boy had blue eyes, brighter than the sky and a grin greater than the sun.
He was eighteen and he desperately wished to hold him, hug him, tell him all the little things.
He was eighteen and he offered him a bowl of ramen.
He was eighteen and he turned away, there was a bitter feeling in his chest.
He threw himself away into S-rank missions.
The Sandaime could only watch with tired eyes.
They were all tired.
He just hid it better.
His wrists still burned.
He was twenty-six and there were whispers, badideabadbadbad.
He was twenty-six and they were Genin.
Innocent children, untouched by war. Rough around the edges but good, and most importantly, pure.
He didn’t want to touch them, didn’t want to look at them.
He doesn’t deserve this.
He was part of the ANBU, he was Friend Killer Kakashi, he is a monster.
Why is the Sandaime allowing someone like him near them?
He ignores them, walks away too soon and comes to them too late.
Lieslieslies, ablackcat-notheroadwas-anoldlady….
He keeps trying, but why do them come closer?
He is a starved man and they are the meal.
He can’t help but wonder why their affection feels so good, almost better than the glass.
They don’t even notice the blood.
He laughs and they wonder why it sounds like he's screaming.
They find him with red wrists and bloodshot eyes.
Myfaultmyfaultmineminemine.
Death is a welcomed guest but the others shoo it away.
He can't help but wonder why.
He was thirty and he knew.
He was thirty and he saw.
He was thirty and the sharingan was spinningspinningspinning.
He was thirty and he remembered, a precaution, one he hoped he would never have to use.
He brushed off the looks Naruto gave him and hoped no one else noticed.
Chiyo wasn't the only one willing to sacrifice their life that day.
He was thirty-nine and there were screams, nonono!
He was thirty-nine and he was choking on his own blood, his lungs spasming as his body struggled to live even when he knew what was happening.
Fingers twitching, and eyes rolling back in panic, he can't help but feel terrified.
Can't breathe. Can’t breathe. Can’tbreathebreathebreathe.
A gasp, a gurgle. Blood drips from his mouth, seeps into the ripped remains of his mask.
He was thirty-nine and he was there.
He was thirty-nine and Naruto was screaming, he wished the boy-no, man, would stop and let him die.
He was thirty-nine and he couldn’t help but smile, an eery picture painted by the blood on his lips and in his teeth.
He was thirty-nine and-
He took one last breath.
He was twenty-six and there was a man.
He was twenty-six and the man said, “I am Uzumaki Makoto.”
He was twenty-six and the man was familiar, with such familiar blue eyes
He was twenty-six and the man looked at him with those blue eyes, brighter than the sky but darker than the ocean.
He couldn't help but feel like he knew him from somewhere.
The man smiled, a smile full of remorse and nostalgia.
Kakashi couldn’t help but feel a flutter in his chest at the look.
The glass dropped, slipped from his hands and-
His heart was finally beginning to heal.
Scars stitched back with steady hands and kindkindkind blue eyes.
One day, maybe not now, he’ll realize just how important he was.
But for now, all that mattered was the red haired man with a shy grin.
And as he looked up at the bright sky, he couldn't help but wish those days would come sooner.