Whispers

He walked through the streets, head down, scruffy hair hiding his eyes.

"It's him . . ."

Did they think he couldn't hear?

"They say he's a demon. . ."

"Have you heard? No mercy, they say . . ."

No, no, no, no, no, no, it wasn't like that!

"Didn't even shed a tear. . ."

It wasn't his fault, he wasn't a demon.

"Killed him with just one hit . . . a knife . . ."

He tried frantically to justify it. The man had fallen onto the blade he was holding and he was horrified-scared-terrified-frozen and couldn't do anything. His blood was on his hands and wet-bad-hot-sticky and staining them. Dry eyes staring into the other man's unresponsive ones. Then . . . wild-crazy-happy-relieved laughter. He wasn't dead, he had done it, sensei would be proud.

Sensei was proud, but his teammates stayed away, distanced, whispering. Did they think he couldn't hear?

"Kaa-san said to stay away from him . . ."

"Hai, I heard that he's demon spawn."

"Look at him . . . those markings . . . they can't be human."

Home then. The whispers, hate, cold eyes. He tried so hard for them, tried to be the best to protect them. But their cold-angry-hateful-glaring eyes always burned him, the whispers of demon and devil's child and hellspawn floated around his ears. He tried, tried, tried, but it wasn't enough.

Later, his teammates accepted him, cared for him, loved him. They walked through the streets with him, harsh-angry-disgusted glares pointed at anyone calling him demon-freak-inhuman.

He stayed away . . . . didn't go out . . . people seemed happier that way. Always shut up underground, he stayed away.

Seeing dead eyes empty-glazed-gone-shiny-glassy stare into his slitted ones . . . waking up at night screaming . . . but nobody cared . . . nobody would ever care.

Finding new ways to get power, power to get them to love-respect-acknowledge him. Power to protect his people.

Then . . . finding that fear worked. That they obeyed-respected-acknowledged the person that they feared. He thought it was the same. . .

"It's the lord!"

Bowing when he passed.

Then, hearing hushed whispers of what he would do to them if they didn't obey. Did they think he couldn't hear?

Whispers changed from fear to respect . . .

"It's him . . . Konoha's prodigy!"

They respected him.

"That's the one who saved Konoha!"

They loved him.

"He'll be the next Hokage, just you wait . . ."

They believed in him.

And then from respect back to fear as soon as people started to forget.

"It's him . . ."

Why did they hate him again?

"Demon . . ."

He didn't do anything!

"He used his evil demonic powers to kill the enemy."

No, no, no, no, no, no, no, he used his training and research!

Researching new ways for them to love him . . . deciding that finally, he had a way to make them care about him. Care about him forever.

Being found underground in his home, his sensei glaring at him with those cold-resentful-angry eyes like the rest of the village.

"You are no longer a student of mine!"

Pain-hurt-ripping-tearing-sadness swirled through him. Couldn't sensei see that he was just trying to help Konoha? Protect her?

Running away, not wanting to hurt that man . . . Hearing his best friend catch up with him, demanding to know why . . .

Hearing words that weren't-his-never-his coming out of his mouth, running away when his best friend was lying on the ground for dead.

Didn't they see? He was just trying to help . . . Why didn't they see?

Thinking back and finding that oh god, those words WERE his and his best friend was dying by his hands.

And then, too late. . . Orochimaru realized that he was a demon. But it was too late to go back now.