Had I known life was going to be such a hellhole, I would have gladly let my brother kill me, along with everything I held close to my heart.
My name is Uchiha Sasuke.
I hate that name. Uchiha. It wouldn't be as bad if I didn't share it with him.
Since the moment I saw him, shrouded in darkness of a moonlit night, blood dripping off several knives held in his hands, black clothes splattered with blood, sharingan eyes gleaming red as the fury of the hell that must have spawned him, I hated him.
Nothing would do me more pleasure then to see him swallowed up in the flames of the deepest cesspools of hell. I hated him. As cold as the arctic wind, as evil as the devil himself. No one could stop him.
They were all dead. Everyone with the name "Uchiha". Except me. Those evil red eyes squinted at me, bloody daggers swaying in his hand, awaiting the soft flesh of my back to dig into. My eyes watered, eyes that he would gladly have gouged out, dig his knife into my skull, fishing out my eyeballs, my brain bleeding, mutilated. Limbs scattered across the floor. He would do that.
He wanted to.
His evil feet advanced towards me, splashing in pools of blood. Pools. There were puddles of it.
Everywhere. His clothes, the walls, the ceiling, even on me.
He could have killed me. I didn't let him. I ran. Outside, bloody bodies littered the streets. Half alive men and women slumped against walls reached out their hands as I ran past. "Help me…" they cried, blood pouring from their chests and stomachs, their hands trying to weakly cover up the gaping holes in their abdomens where intestines spilled out and onto the ground as the miserable souls cried in agony as they died. My friends lay dead, sliced into pieces. Their parents, villagers, lay scattered across the streets like so much confetti. My feet slipped on intestines, dead animal carcasses, limbs hacked from bodies, no doubt as they tried to defend themselves from the assassin of the night. Some detached limbs still held weapons, clenched in their white fingers. I slipped, fell hard, and scrambled back up, crying, tears pouring out of my eyes onto my blood-mud stained shirt. I ran and ran until I couldn't anymore, out of the village, away from my country. And then I ran some more, until I collapsed on the first traveler I saw pass by the road, convulsing with sobs, uncried screams ripping at my throat, drying it like Gaara's homeland.
I cried. I cried and screamed until my voice left, until I sobbed all the fluid from my body. I couldn't stop.
I didn't want to. By crying, I felt I could rip the images of my dead friends, parents, from my mind, the blood from my skin. Blood burns. On my skin, it felt like my arms and legs and where it had seeped through my clothes were on fire. I burned, screamed in agony. But no one heard me. No one guessed why I was screaming and crying like that. A kind soul, if there is such thing, brought me to the nearest village.
I don't remember much about that. Just someone taking my hand and leading me somewhere. Into a room that was so warm it made the blood on my arms burn even more. Just a woman putting a cold hand on my forehead. Her hand covered my eyes, overlapping onto my black hair and down to my nose. Her hands were as cold as death. I didn't notice as much. Sorrow had overcome me. I remember her wiping the blood off my face and arms with a rough cloth, wiping the tear stains from my swollen face with her hand, the cold hands. She smiled at me. I wanted to lash out at her, for smiling at me. She asked me what was the matter and if she could help.
I shook my head as hard as I could, clenching my black eyes shut as hard as I could.
She asked me what my name was. "Sass- kay." I said quietly, amazed to hear my own voice not screaming.
'Well, Sasuke-" she said.
But it was too much. The images of bloody carcasses hacked to pieces by the one I called brother had overwhelmed me. I passed out in her arms.
I was six years old.
And so overcome with horror I couldn't speak.
That was seven years ago, almost.
I'm thirteen now.
I've changed a lot. I'm taller, darker, a helluva lot stronger.
I don't cry anymore.
A few days after they found me, they noticed a change in me.
I didn't scream anymore. I didn't cry. I didn't smile. I just sat there, looking at the wall.
They said I was in shock.
In truth, I was trapped. In my mind, I was back there. In that dark house, pushing open those doors, seeing those bodies, gasping and crying and screaming. Seeing him walk towards me, moonlight glittering off those daggers in his hand, hearing his feet crash on the floor, every step bringing me closer to my doom, his pleasure.
I sat there, looking at that white, sickeningly, maddening white, hospital wall. Trapped in my mind.
I could not escape. I couldn't move my arms or legs, my head. I couldn't even close my eyes.
I could only look forward, imaging blood splattered on those white walls.
When they spoke to me, I couldn't speak. I tried to plead with my eyes to them, tried to ask them to save me from him. But they didn't understand.
And that's how I spent two years of my life.
Trapped in my own mind.