The Boy Who Loved Jam

Disclaimer: Naruto is Kishimoto's property. I'm not making any money from this story.

Warning: Morbid Content.

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Apples and strawberries were hard to find in the desert. They did not grow in sands. Traders brought them from the vendors in Konoha. He loved them: lush and sweet red things. They were like the blush on his mother's cheeks in that picture in his room, like the red berries that hung heavy from vines. One of the servants told him that, when they got ripe and juicy in summer, they fell down the branches in droves. What a pretty sight that must be?

So he walked, tiny feet carrying him through the crowd. It was that time of the day when the sun was cool and about to say its final farewells across the sky. It, too, spread the colour of love. Yes, red was the colour of love. His mother's lovely face had that colour around the pretty cheeks and neck in every photo where she smiled!

He looked to the horizon and it was so red: the slit throat of a child and vividly it bled with love. And he closed his eyes against the sensation, cool wind sloping down the dunes. Sand formed little waves, and the footsteps of the caravan were lost. They had chakra to guide their way.

He touched the smooth fabric of his shirt and looked ahead at the market again. He was muffled up in a scarf against the prying eyes of people. A shock of wavy red hair hung low over his green eyes: no one could clearly see the shadows that rimmed his young eyes—shadows guarded them well.

He gazed at the vendors and women: they were buying the new stock that had come from far off villages. A smile spread across his red mouth, and keenly, he searched for the red paste in the tents. There it was, the sweet red jam made out of apples and strawberries. It always tasted so sweet, and he felt his tongue quiver and salivate at the thought of relishing it.

He stopped by the vendor's stall, put his hands on the rough counter made of dry-wood, tip-toed to look at the bottle. It was not too big. He could carry it easily in his jute bag. So he stretched his plump arm to its full length and pointed at the bottle. The vendor smiled, told him the price, and then suddenly looked so afraid at the sight of the black tattoo etched into his forehead. The wind had ruffled his hair—the playful whore!

He was a fat old man with wobbly arms and thick ankles. He twitched uneasily and quickly put the jam on the shaky wooden-counter before the little boy, insisting that he did not need any money from him. This was strange. No man refused money for his jam. It was sweet and made with the greatest care and love. He frowned a little and dug deep into his pocket to take out the silver coin for his work of art. He put it on the counter and grabbed the jam and stuffed it into his jute-bag.

The little boy slung it over his shoulder and walked off to the ruins where red roses grew. Red was the colour of love!

It took him a good thirty minutes to make it to the ruins. Shadows danced, and sand rippled like silk in the wind that blew towards the west. That was where the wind was going. Would it carry the voice of his love to his mother? He did not know. So he sat down upon the little stone there and took out the jam. It was so red and delicious. The bottle was cool; the vendor must have used Suiton around it to keep the heat away.

A soft smile touched his lips and his eyes. His stomach tightened, and his heart began to beat faster and faster in anticipation. He turned the lid of the jar quickly and took the top off. The light, sugary sweet smell of jam went up into his wriggling little nose, and his nostrils flapped. He breathed in deep and enjoyed the little piece of love in a bottle; his mother would love a little piece of red. His uncle had said that she had gone off to the west. He would go there tomorrow, find that oasis, and press his face to her breast. He would gift her this jam. This was the only thing could give her . . . and his love. Yes, she would love his jam and his love!

He was still looking, eyes full of love that were dressed in the colour of evening's pleasure, when a stone struck the bottle, and it shattered to pieces in his hands. The thick jam slid right out of his fingers. He watched in horror as it fell down in thick clumps upon the sand. It was dirtied—his love was dirtied!

He breathed with difficulty, and his pink lips rattled. Suddenly, he clutched at his heart when he heard the kids chant monster in unison. Their words hurt: his heart was hurt. The jam was already drying by his feet in the desert's heat; it had turned into a thick and gruel mixture of dirt and red paste. What would he take to his mother come tomorrow? What would he say to her? His gift of love was spoilt. It was ruined!

A hole tore up his heart and out came the nurtured malice inside; he was a little mother to his own unloved spirit. He looked at the kids, and they were still laughing. He hated their laughs, their joy at the expense of his misery. A mass of sand rose up and began spinning about him. Their smiles vanished, and they took to their heels, but the sand was his domain. He would not forgive them for what they had done! They would pay, sons of mewling whores!

He shot his arm forward and closed his fingers into a tiny trembling fist that was as mighty as a warrior's, as firm as a judge's, as cruel as an executioner's. Their fates were sealed—the little bastards! They could not run more than a couple of feet in the direction of the shadows when the sand overcame them in waves. It went into their mouths and filled their lungs to the full.

He made five good and neat coffins, and round and round he made them float in the air like pretty sepultures; and he squeezed that trembling fist good, crying bitter tears that his gift was ruined. Blood exploded out of the sand-coffins—little streams of love in the last lights of sun. Then, as fresh red rolled down, it became thick and gooey like the jam.

A small smile came to his lips, and he wiped away the tears. The coffins fell down and sands scattered and a writhing mass of limbs, heads, and guts materialized from it. From where he stood, it looked just like a red jam. Red jam . . . the gift of love!

So he picked up his jute-bag and whispered an apology into the wind, hoping that it would carry his words to her in the west. Then he took slow steps to the vendors' shops again. He touched his pocket and felt three coins there; he would buy her a new one, an even redder one, for red was the colour of his love!

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The End