DISCLAIMER! I do not own Naruto. If I did, it would be an angsty shoujo.

Enjoy.

I hate this life.

Ever since Asuma died, my life has been just a pile of shit. My family started to hate me. My mother spazzes out about every small thing and blames it on me. I won't even be in the same room, but she'll find a way to blame it on me. My father doesn't even care. Ever since I went mute, every little thing sets him off. I don't say anything, because only then can I blend into the background when they start fighting.

My best friends left me to do their own thing. One of them decided that smoking was the only thing that could bring back our deceased teacher, so he became a chain smoker. I couldn't stand it; the harsh, strong smell of the smoke sent memories spiraling through me, and made my stomach churn. My other best friend took Asuma's advice to the extreme; he stopped eating. He dropped so many pounds, it scared me. So, I forced him to eat. But he found a way around it. He would just throw it up. I knew that no matter what I would say would stop or change either of them, so I stopped talking. I just blended in. I became just another part of their day.

But, it was excruciating, realizing that didn't even notice I stopped talking. Their usual motor-mouth friend is quiet. But who cares? Feeling unwanted hurt me so much. Like I was just wasting space being alive. I tried to take my life one night; I sliced my wrists. But, being the pathetic coward that I was, I couldn't go in deep enough. I amazed myself when I opened my mouth in a smile for the first time in months. I liked the feeling of the pain. It felt so good; all of the pain that was built up inside of me leaked out and dripped from my wrists. I loved it.

So I continued. My parents didn't see. My friends didn't care. I kept a small blade in my pocket, waiting for the pain to come back. Whenever I saw either of my ex-best friends, I would grit my teeth in pleasure. I felt an icy hand squeeze and tug at my heart, but it always crept away along with my blood whenever I would cut myself. I noticed that other teachers were starting to notice the scars on my wrists. To keep it covert, I started to cut my thighs. But, nothing matched the pain from my wrist. I ended up with a lot more long-sleeves than ever.

It irritated me, though, how my exes could still continue on their path. Couldn't they see what they were doing to themselves, much less me? They were each on a path of destruction, one that would eventually lead to their demise. I knew that I was probably being hypocritical, but I wasn't going to die from losing a little bit of blood. I wasn't going to kill myself—not when I had this amazing feeling to look forward to. Them on the other hand…

XOXOXOX

"Ino! Get up, dammit!"

I rolled over in my bed. Fuck my parents. Where did they get off yelling at me? Lucky for them, my vow was still strong.

"Ino, get up, or so help me God…!"

I pulled the blanket over my head. Oh, how I just wish they would disappear… They were the root of so many problems in my life. Haven't they realized that their own daughter is a cutter yet?

I felt the blanket being pulled off of me, and a hand tugging me up by my hair. "Dammit!" I heard my mother screech in my ear. She pulled my hair higher, and then dropped me. "Get up, get dressed, and leave this house! If you won't do anything good, then just leave!"

I glared at her, my hands clenched into angry balls. I didn't need to grit my teeth any longer—my mouth just didn't have the energy to open anymore. I jerked my head up, then down, then stood up. Fine. I'll leave. I thought, wondering when the flames would shoot out.

My mother growled. "Don't you ever disrespect me!" She turned around, out my room, and slammed the door behind her. A few things resting on my bedside fell down with a crash. I heard my mother scream profanities as she stormed down the stairs, and a few more crashes as she punched the walls.

I stared bitterly at the door, waiting for the wall to break and fall on her. She was so goddamn annoying. Why didn't it? Shikamaru must have it good. His dad died long ago and now his mother is just a lazy mourner. She would never scream at him the way mine does to me.

I sighed, breathing out from my nose. My tense body relaxed a little bit. I should just dress and leave. Making a small plan in my mind, I opened my closet door, carefully going over my wardrobe. Most of it was gone; the laundry hadn't been done in a month or so. I pulled out a long-sleeve black-and-red striped shirt and quickly changed into it, pairing it with a pair of dark blue capris. After getting dressed, I slowly walked around my room, fixing the posters on my wall; the things that fell from my mother's little rampage earlier. I stopped at my desk, staring at the many objects resting on it. A backpack, some shirts and my cell phone. I slowly dropped a shirt onto the floor to stare at my only refuge.

My pale blue box cutter knife stared back at me, its blade showing. I smiled wryly, and slowly picked it up. I retracted the blade—it would cut through my pants and cause a bloodstain if it was out—and slid it into my right pocket. I felt a small sense of heat warming my thigh. Having this blade with me always made me smile, even if I didn't always know it.

I picked up my cell phone again. It was on silent—I had muted it last night because Sakura and the other girls in Kohona wouldn't stop calling me. Idiots. Didn't they know that I can't talk? I turned it on vibrate and dropped in into my other pocket. I shoved the other shirts into the backpack—habit, I guess, I always like to have my desk clean—and pulled the backpack onto my back. I turned around and walked out of my room. As I headed down the stairs, I heard the muffled sobs of my mother. I ignored it, and kept walking. The house was quiet otherwise—Dad must've left. As I headed out of my prison, I stopped. On the wall right beside the front door, a small whiteboard had been placed, waiting for me. I recognized Sakura's handwriting on it.

For Ino. Please use this. Write what you think, please. We're all so worried. Sakura.

I read it twice, disgusted. My eyes locked onto a small heart just under her name. I grimaced at both the heart and the note. How far was she going to go? I pulled the whiteboard off the wall, and tucked it underneath my arm. I changed my day plan—First, Sakura's house.

On the way there, I walked slowly, breathing in the morning air. I got up a little late, so all of the shops were already open. I smiled mentally—no one can seen me smile in public—and gripped the whiteboard tighter, my fingers curling up in excitement. Sakura would be out at her job. I could leave the worst message on this piece of crap, and not have to wait for her to finish talking. I walked slower, but with more excitement.

When I reached her house, I grinned slightly. I kneeled down on her porch, writing slowly and clear. My handwriting was usually sloppy, but I needed her to read this.

Sakura, I started. I hate you. I'm not going to talk any time soon, and anything you try to do to me WON'T WORK. So, why not just give up? Look, I'm going to leave this as a last warning. NEVER contact me again, unless you want my blade to go deeper. Ino.

I frowned a bit at the end, wondering if I should erase it. Sakura was always so "caring", and she hated when I talked about my cutting. She was already freaking out about my silence. But, that suicide card always kept her quiet for a while, so I just ignored the little angel on my shoulder. I scribbled a little heart by the side, mocking her own note, and left it on her door. I stood up, re-reading my message. I mentally smiled contently. She wouldn't bother me for a while.

I frowned again. But now, I had nothing to do. I could wander around again. It was fun yesterday; I sat in the back of a coffee shop, staring at the customers, trying to figure out their insecurities and problems. I finally settled on the fact that most women were worried about their weight and men were eclectic; from the ball game that night or whether he should order a snack with his coffee. I always enjoyed watching other people struggle through their trivial tasks—it made me feel a bit better, like life was normal somewhere.

As I mused over the options, I unconsciously decided to start walking. After I settled on wanting to go to the park, I realized where I was going. I exhaled sharply out of my nose, and turned around. There was no way I was going there; even if I was "always invited". The last time I was there, I had good memories. Memories that hurt me just as much as Shikamaru's smoke did—maybe even more. I felt my stomach churn as my mind started to dust off the forbidden memories, and my heart thumped unevenly. I stopped, unable to handle the pain anymore. My hand flew up to my mouth, and I squeezed my eyes closed. The ground was spinning—not good. Why was I heading there, anyway? What was my unconscious trying to tell me? There was no reason for me to go back. It wouldn't do anyone good.

I bit my tongue. The pain reminded me not to cry in public. Even if these houses were empty, anyone could be walking their dog out, or something. If I was seen crying, I would never be able to go through a day without at least twenty calls from Sakura. The pain spiraled through me; my heart thumped louder and my chest felt very tight. I squeezed my eyes tighter, trying to remember my mom the morning—that would get me aggravated, not sad. Suddenly, my right thigh felt very warm, and I was reminded of my knife. I pursed my lips and opened my eyes. Now, where was a good, private place I could go? I dropped my hand and ran, headed towards the park.

When I reached the park, I dashed into the girl's restroom. In the last stall—the largest—I leaned against the wall, breathing through a break in my lips. I pulled out my knife, and smiled when I heard the click of the blade being pulled out. I pulled up my left sleeve, down to my elbow, and overlooked my scars. Most of them were still in scab form, but some were in its angry, puckered, pink shape that would stay with me forever. I found and opening in-between two slashes right below my wrist bone, and laid the cold blade there. I closed my eyes and my mouth opened in a smile when I felt the sharp edge burrow into my skin. I pulled the blade to the side, making a larger, deeper cut. I laid it back down, diagonal over my new cut, and pressed again.

After a few long seconds, I lifted up my blade. My blood had been pulsing out with each heartbeat, running down my arm and onto the bathroom tile. My blade had blood streaming down the edges. I giggled a little inside; the sight of my blood always made me a bit high. I slowly ripped some toilet paper off, and wiped my blade clean. I threw that into the toilet and ripped off some more. I folded it thrice and laid it on my cuts, pressing down. I sighed in content. The dizzying pain that strangled my heart so badly was gone. All I could feel was relief.

Well, cutting myself never really did fully heal me—it always just lifted the pain. It was like medicine. It took away the feeling, but the pain was always there. Allowing my blood to spill out of my arms gave me a soft, numbing feeling. One that took away the aching in my heart and the churning in my stomach. It made me feel better, like I could live through the day.

I smiled, standing up. I threw away the bloody paper, and ripped off some more. I wound it around my wrist, slid my sleeve down over it, and walked out of the stall. I dropped my blade back into my pocket, and pursed my lips again. I couldn't stay here. If someone saw me run in hysterical and sees me leave calm, they would probably question me about it. Or…I sighed. Sakura. Everyone knows everyone here. Plus, Sakura is a town hero. They would definitely be able to pick out her used-to-be right-hand girlfriend.

I stalked out of the restroom, keeping an eye out for anyone I knew or saw before. I was able to dash out of the park without being seen, so I was clear for now. But, a problem still loomed over me. What was I going to do today? It seemed so strange that I was worrying about my day plans when I had blood still dripping out of my wrist, but it was the only thing I could think of. I was always irritable when I had nothing to do all day. I changed a lot, but that never went away. I thought mildly of going to the coffee shop again, but the shop owner would probably kick me out if I didn't order something—something I couldn't do.

I noticed a bus bench, and wondered if I had enough money for a trip. I could go to a new place. That would give me something to do. But my plan was shattered when I realized that my parents had completely cut off my money flow. I didn't have a cent.

I ignored it, and sat on the bench anyway, trying to figure things out. I heard the angel on my shoulder tell me to go to Chouji's house—he would still talk to me, but I tried to ignore him. The devil on my other shoulder shouted across me, telling the angel to shut up. Every cell in my body ached to want to agree with the devil, but I had to agree with my angel. It was no fair to Chouji. Just this past week he started to try to talk to me again—he called my house and left a message asking me to come over. I ignored him, because I didn't want painful memories to invade the empty space I had in my mind at the time. But, he was finally making contact; he was trying to become my friend again. I couldn't just ignore him.

I stood up, my heart thumping too loud. I scowled mentally at it. Why was it like this? It was just Chouji. Nothing bad was going to happen.

Nothing good, either, My devil snickered. Just ignore him.

No! My angel protested. He wants to be friends again—take this chance!

I growled at them and they shut up. I wondered if Chouji actually wanted to become friends again or if he was being pressured into this situation. I decided that he was being pressured, and headed down the street anyway.

I knew the way to Chouji's house by heart. I used to walk there every Sunday; I used to skip down the long brick road that led to a dirt road which led to his little house. His mother always had some sweets waiting for us—a plate for Shikamaru and me and a plate for Chouji. It was a better time. A time where we could just laugh off our problems. But now, laughing wouldn't do anything. It wouldn't change Shikamaru's habits; Chouji's problem; my scars. It wouldn't change the fact that Asuma was dead and Kurenai was a widow.

I felt my body involuntarily stiffen at the sight of Chouji's small house. It seemed smaller now. I wondered how his parents were, compared to mine. But I shook off that thought, and walked down the small path that reached his front door.

As I reached out for the doorbell, I froze. My hand wouldn't move. My eyes were wide open, frozen. My chest tightened and my stomach churned once more. I felt the icy hand that I always felt before I cut myself grasp at my heart, tugging at it and mangling it in it's cold, dagger-sharp fingers. I felt my knees shake, and a lump rose in my throat. I couldn't stop it. The painful memories that always lead to a new scar ran through my mind, flickering in front of my eyes. I wanted so bad to pull out my blade and slice into my skin, but I couldn't. I couldn't move my body. I felt a bit lightheaded—I had forgotten to breathe.

I had to pull myself together before I started crying. If I didn't, the tears would swell up and rush over my eyes, streaming down my cheeks, showing no signs of stopping. I had to prevent that, no matter what. I forced my hand to go down, reaching for my pocket. Suddenly, I felt a sharp pain hit my head. It took me a while until I realized that my knees had buckled, and my head had hit the door. I pulled my lips together, biting them both at the same time. I bit harder, reminding myself not to cry, until it broke through the skin. The bitter taste of blood filled my mouth, and I opened it ever so slightly to let it drip out. I smiled slightly at the sight of my blood dripping, forming small red pools, and the pain lifted by a fragment. I lifted my arms, resting my hands over my head. My pocket felt very heavy, and I knew it was my subconscious reminding me of my blade.

I ignored it.

I squeezed my eyes shut, then slowly stood up. I could do this. Even if my heart gave out, I would try and try until I could see Chouji. I had to do this, no matter what.

I jumped a bit at the door opening. I suddenly realized, with a mix of shock and horror, that my head had been resting against the doorbell. I looked down, avoiding Chouji's face.

"Ino," Chouji breathed, sounding incredulous. "You came."

I nodded ever so slightly, looking out into the forest that surrounded his house. He was wearing a short-sleeve and I didn't want to see his skin.

"Come in, please," He said. I could hear a smile in his voice. "I-I have so much to say."

I frowned. His voice sounded haggard—he always sounded like this when he first started his bingeing. I could see him in my mind—deep dark circles under his eyes, his cheekbones jutting out, his eyes so cold and distant even if he smiled.

I followed him inside, trying to focus on the stripe pattern of my shirt. My heart thumped in a strange pattern, and my stomach did a one-eighty. I lifted my hand up to my left wrist, and pressed down lightly on it, trying to bring back a little bit of the pain. It didn't work, so I just bit the inside of my cheek.

Chouji led me into a small, dark room that only had one window. The blinds were down, but a small stream of sunlight peeked into the room. I recognized it as Chouji's room. It was bare, the walls white, and the floor clean. A closet door on the left side of the room was open, clothes strewn about beside it, and a small bed on the right side. Chouji sat on it, his head turned to the window. I leaned against the doorframe, crossing my arms, and I wondered what he was thinking about, but then went back to my shirt.

"You're probably wondering," Chouji said after a while. "Why I asked you to come here." He chuckled a little; it was a cold, bitter sound. "I'm surprised you even cared. I thought you hated me."

My frown deepened.

"I needed to tell you that," He took in a deep breath, then turned his face towards me. He spoke so quickly; I struggled to keep up. "That I'm sorry. I know that I was acting like I was a jerk—well, I am, but that doesn't change anything. I should've noticed your silence. I thought you were just giving me the cold shoulder, like you used to, remember? But, when I noticed you started to wear long-sleeves, even in warm weather, I knew something had to be up. That's why I asked Ms. Kurenai to invite you over that night. I wanted her to find out what you were doing. I mean, I read stories about people who used to inflict bodily harm to themselves, but I never thought that you…! I knew that I must've crossed the line when Sakura told me that you started to ignore you also. My fears were confirmed when Ms. Kurenai told me that you had run out crying when she told you that you could always come back. She told me that she saw your scars, and the way your hand always hovered over your pocket, like something was in there that you needed. I felt so horrible—I thought that if I had paid more attention to your silence, then maybe you wouldn't be cutting yourself!"—He shuddered on the last few words—"I feel so horrible, Ino. Please, tell me that you forgive me. Actually, don't. That's too much to ask for. Too understanding." He shook his head then continued. "Please, Ino. Call me every bad name in every language you can think of. Tell me that you hate me and that you wish that I was the suicidal one, and that I don't even have any rights to talk to you, please!" The lump in my throat came back when his voice became pleading. "I need to feel like dirt. I need to pay for everything I did to you."

I closed my eyes. They stung. Chouji was always so much more feeling. Shikamaru would just admit that he was wrong, but that would be it. It pained me that Chouji was willing to be treated so badly just to make up for my scars. It made no sense! What was going to happen? Were they going to disappear? Was everything just going to go back to our past, our happier time? No. Nothing would change.

I shook my head. No, my devil shouted. Do what he says! Insult him; hurt him like how he hurt you!

Don't, my angel breathed into my ear. You're right.

I shook my head again, harder this time. I wanted to cry out, I wanted to hug him and tell him that everything was going to be OK…But it wasn't.

Chouji laughed again; the same bitter one. "I guess you wouldn't," He muttered, more to himself. "You're not gonna talk are you? How long have you been mute?"

I frowned, looking up. A year, I thought, trying to force it into my eyes. It's been a year since he died.

I looked back down, suddenly hating my decision.His face was horrible—worse than my memories. He had cut his hair. His long, beautiful, bronze hair—gone. It was a short cut, close to his head. His brown eyes were a listless black, with only a hint of pain seeping through. His features were twisted from pain. His eyes narrowed; his brows furrowed; his long, thin lips twisted down into a agonized scowl. I heart thumped louder, my chest getting smaller each time.

"You haven't spoken once, have you?" Chouji said, finally, his voice soft. It was twisted in agony and guilt. "Not once since then…"

I nodded. I could at least do that.

He stood up. I felt a thin, bony hand on my shoulder. I looked down, tucking my chin in and raising my shoulders. I shouted mentally at my heart to just stop—at least then it wouldn't hurt.

"I guess you should be going," He murmured, his voice stiff; formal. I could tell that he was trying to prevent any more emotions from seeping into his voice. "I'll show you out."

Don't! My angel shouted. Tell him! Speak!

Ignore her! My devil shouted in my other ear. Ignore him! He deserves this pain!

I squeezed my eyes closed, and turned around, walking out of the room. I couldn't take it. My heart hurt so much. My mind kept racing, and my stomach wouldn't stay still. I needed my blade, and I needed it now. My hand was already in my pocket when I reached the front door. I fumbled with the doorknob until Chouji opened it for me, and I ran out, stumbling. I pulled my blade out, not caring that I was only a few yards away from the door. I opened my eyes, looking for an exit. The only way was the small path that led to the brick road, but people would be walking by—it was lunch hour. I couldn't cut myself there. My eyes frantically sweeped over the land, searching for a trail; a path; something that lead into the woods.

Finally, I couldn't take it.

I clicked my blade out, gasping. I pressed it down onto my wrist, not even caring about my sleeves. I slashed it to the side, lifted it up, and pressed it back down, higher up this time. I pressed hard, harder than ever. I wanted to just escape this pain. I wanted to find that one place where there wouldn't be anymore pain…

Suddenly, I felt a hand jerk my blade out of my wrist. I wanted to scream out a "no", but I had no voice. I couldn't find it. I had lost it.

"Ino!" Chouji shouted, throwing my blade behind him. I gasped again, trying to throw a punch in his direction. But I couldn't. I fell to the ground, my blood rushing out of my wrists, my sleeves cut, and my tears mixing with the little red pools. I choked out another gasp, wondering if I had cut deep enough.

I felt his arms around me, holding me. I felt my fingers curl, pulling the cloth of his shirt into them. I cried, choking out more sobs as my blood and tears stained his shirt. It vaguely reminded me of how Asuma used to sit with me, pat my back, and listen whenever I had problems that I couldn't tell anyone else. When I was struggling through my first signs of anorexia, Asuma spent many a night sitting with me, allowing me to stain his shirt with tears. I sobbed louder, embarrassed by the noise.

After a while—I didn't know if it was a minute or an hour—my crying slowed to a stop. Chouji was still sitting with me, his arms wrapped around me.

Why?! My devil screeched. Why are you letting him comfort you?!

My angel was silent, possibly smug.

I looked up, my vision blurred by my tears. Chouji's face was down, looking at me, but his eyes were avoiding mine. He was silent, waiting.

I shook my head slowly. I hated myself so much. I couldn't talk, not yet.

Chouji seemed to understand. "Why?" He asked, his voice pained. He barely touched my left wrist with his right hand. "Why are you…?"

I shook my head again, grasping my wrist with my other hand, squeezing it. It didn't matter.

Chouji frowned. His eyes fixed on mine, and I realized that they were puffed also. Had he been crying along? "Why?" He repeated, now whispering.

I looked down. I couldn't face him. No, why was I even here? I wanted to run, to leave. I wanted my blade again, and I wanted to cut every inch of my skin, slowly. I wanted to cut myself until the pain went away and I was making my own. I wanted to continue. I wanted to be in so much pain; more physical than emotionally. I wanted to bleed.

Chouji stood up, letting go of me. "I'm going back, Ino," He muttered, his voice formal again. "I know I can't change you, but, Ino…"

I knew the rest as well as he did. I want to try. I bit my lip again, waiting for the pain to come back. That was what Asuma told me; that was the line that he said that made me cry out my fears and problems to him. I waited for the pain to spiral again; I waited for the tears.

I waited, but it didn't come.

I didn't know if I was more shocked or worried. The pain used to always come, so why wasn't it coming now? I looked down at my wrist. It still throbbing, so I couldn't be dead or asleep. I only felt a light stab of memories prick my heart, but not enough for blood. I became scared. Why wasn't the pain here? I felt slightly disgusted at the fact that I was now dependent on it.

I heard footsteps, and the pain came. I was amazed. Was it Chouji who helped me? I staggered onto my feet, and tried to take a step forward. When he didn't realize me, I opened my mouth. But only a light puff of air came out.

What are you doing?! My devil screamed. Leave him!

Go, My angel breathed. Try. I know you can talk.

My breathing accelerated. I opened my mouth again, and tried as hard as I could. I tried to forget the past year, tried to forget my vow.

"Chou…" I stopped. My voice sounded so strange, so fragile. Like one word could shatter me. I was afraid that it would, but, mostly, I was happy. Overjoyed.

Chouji stopped and turned around, his face a strange mix of joy, shock and fear.

I closed my eyes, took another breath and tried again. "Chouji…" I stopped, again. I couldn't go on.

I felt a pair of cool lips on my forehead, and opened my eyes. Chouji took a step back, his lips twisted into a sad smile now. "I'm sorry," He muttered. "But, please. See me when you can curse me out."

I smiled a bit too—I knew that it would take a while on his part, but Chouji was the one who had healed me. It was him who was able to take away the sharp stab of pain, and I was obviously the only one who could to the same for him. I was now expectant of healing him. And I didn't care. I would spend hours here, doing all I could, if it were to heal him. I owe him so much now…

Chouji kissed my forehead again, then turned around. He walked slowly, his back hunched over. I noticed that he was actually more filled out—better than what I'd thought. I wondered why I mistook his face for a worse condition, and blamed it on the stress of the moment.

But, as he walked away, I felt oddly happy. The knowledge that I could spend time with my best friend again took away more pain than my blade ever did. My hand grasped my left wrist, this time holding it lightly. The cut was still open, but the bleeding had stopped. My thumb grazed lightly over the scabs and scars. I felt happy, knowing that Chouji could probably make sure that I would never get another scar on my wrist, ever again.

Leave! My devil screeched. And don't come back!

I sighed, and asked my angel to knock her out.