So I've just reedited this...and fixed a few things up. But nothing really changes at all.

I don't own Naruto.

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It was quiet, silent.

The kind of silent that made the hair on the back of your neck stand up. The quiet that told you something horrible had happened, that something had gone wrong in the world.

The man stood on the doorstep, unable to go any further. His blond hair was damp with sweat, sticking to his forehead, covering his eyes. Slowly he reached out, hand shaking and grabbed the cold brass doorknob.

The dark green paint was peeling off in places and there was a foot sized hole at the bottom as though someone had tried to kick their way through. As he pushed the door open a terrible scream was emitted from the frame filling the air. The man flinched and squeezed his eyes closed afraid of what he might see beyond. Taking a tentative step forward he heard the floorboards creak under a weight they hadn't felt in years. Opening his eyes and he examined the scene before him.

The first thing he noticed was the blood.

It pooled on the ground in front of him.

It stained the rug and furniture and covered the walls.

He glanced at his feet noticing the red substance was now covering his shoes. Carefully stepping further into the room his bright blue eyes widened. The large leather couch was turned on its side, ripped to shreds by bullets, stuffing pouring out. Two bodies lay seeped in blood behind it. Both were torn, destroyed and obviously dead. The next thing he saw lay near the screen door at the back. It was a woman probably in her early forties. It seemed she had taken a bullet to the head before she had even gotten a shot off as her gun still had the safety on.

Moving silently into the kitchen he stepped over the limp arm of a large man who had died as result of the butcher knife lodged in his chest.

The kitchen was destroyed.

Bullets had torn up the main wall and sink. Pots and pans littered the floor among broken dishes and glass. He wandered through the rest of the kitchen and turned into what looked to be the dining room. A large polished tabled was on its side one the legs was missing and the chairs were overturned. The large window overlooking the yard was shattered and cracked.

The man froze and his breath caught in his throat.

Leaning against the wall underneath the window was another body.

Long black hair covered her face but he knew.

It was her.

It was always her.

She had been wearing a plain white tank top that was now stained red with blood. In her delicate little hand she held a Sig Sauer p229 pistol. Leaning against the wall was old rifle that the man couldn't identify and a modified AK-47 lay near her feet. Kneeling next to her body he ignored the blood that covered the floor and stained his jeans.

His hand shook as he brushed her soft black fringe from her face.

Blank white eyes stared out at him and a drop of sweat fell from his forehead.

He remembered all the times he had seen those eyes smiling, crying, angry. Now they were empty, of fear, of guilt, of life. He gingerly stroked her check running his fingers along her jaw line.

She was cold, she had probably been dead for a few hours he figured. Examining the rest of her body, he saw the two holes in her stomach and another bullet that had hit her below the shoulder. A trail of blood ran from her temple and he pushed her hair away exposing the sheen of medal still embedded in her skull.

Quietly he closed her eyes and wiped the trickle of blood from her mouth.

It almost looked as though she was sleeping, but he knew.

He knew that he would never see those beautiful white eyes open again. He knew that he would never see her lips form a smile again. He knew he would never hear her laugh, that wind chime like laugh again. He knew he had been too late.

He could have saved her, he was sure. He could have made it in time. At the least he could have been here with her, at least she wouldn't have died alone. Tearing his eyes away from her, he picked himself up off the floor. Surveying the room once more he carefully picked his way out of the house and vanished through the back door.

Once outside a cold wind hit him and he wished he had brought a coat. Walking quickly to his truck which was carefully parked behind the trees and out of view he opened the tailgate and heaved two gallon jugs of fuel into the house. Setting them sown by the front door he began to go about picking up shell casings. He knew that there was probably one or two he missed but he didn't have time to scour the house looking for them.

Taking one last look at her body he picked up the fuel jugs. Making sure to cover each of the bodies along with most of the furniture he carried the now empty jugs back to his truck making a trail of gasoline.

The gasoline ended at his feet and he hesitated for a moment before lighting the match. The flame licked his fingers before he finally let it fall. For a moment it seemed like it hadn't caught, but then suddenly flames burst upward and the man jumped back in surprise. In the few second it took him to start the truck's engine the house had erupted in flames that quickly consuming whatever had once been there.

Fire consumed all, decided all, fire was final.

The man took one last look in the review mirror at the flames licking the sides of the house slowly destroying all evidence of what had transpired out in this barren desert.

"I'll find them." He spoke softly to himself. "I'll make sure you didn't die in vain."

Only then as he was miles away did he let the tears fall, thick and fast.

"I'll never forgive them. And I will never, ever forget you."

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