I don't own Naruto. If I did, it would actually make sense or something crazy like that. Maybe the main character might even have his name in the title.

New poll! Once I'm done with either Children of the Cloud or Demon Brothers of Konoha, I'll start on the next fic. You decide! Go to my profile and vote NOW! (And all you authors, please stop ripping off my ideas. Its okay to use them, but at least give me a heads up please.)

Note: Naruto knows about the Kyuubi no Kitsune in this oneshot, but not his parentage. Is set before canon. Also, please don't say anything about no one attacking Naruto in canon. It's simply human nature to take out hatred or fear or sadness on others, even if they are just scapegoats.

7/29/10

Demon. Monster. Murderer.

I am all of these things, and I am none of them. How, you may ask. Well, that…that is a story that starts a long time ago…

You see, the thing is, I am not human. I was born a perfectly normal, homo sapien, typical male human child. But I was only human for all of half an hour. 30 minutes after I was born…well, let's just say things changed for me.

You can take a blood test, check my sperm, take a skin graft, scrape cells out of the inside of my cheek, whatever. Genetically, yes, I am still human. But I have lost all humanity. What am I?

I am a jinchuriki. Jinchuriki means "power of a human sacrifice". We are seen as the demons we hold within us. It makes just about as much sense as a paper scroll that has a kunai sealed it in being called pointed and sharp. Yes, we hold terrible, horrible things inside us…but everyone forgets that we are not those things. We are ourselves…but only to ourselves. To just about everyone else, we are abominations that must be killed. Even the more open-minded individuals cannot even begin to comprehend what the word 'jinchuriki' means. They think that people like me somehow become less human in mind or body, a necessary sacrifice so that our villages can be protected.

They're wrong.

The real reason why we are the "power of a human sacrifice"…is because mankind rejects us. It is not our humanity that is sacrificed, but the right to be accepted by humans. This is our curse. This is our blessing.

Being a jinchuriki isn't so bad, once you grow to accept that fact that you will walk a solitary path in life. It's certainly quieter; humans can be…overbearing, stupid, arrogant, greedy, and horribly short-sighted at times. Being a jinchuriki comes with benefits, for sure. For me, I was given a massive regeneration factor by my Biju, the Nine-Tailed Demon Fox. You can literally rip me limb from limb, and my torso will regenerate my arms and my legs. I've had my throat slit many, many times, sometimes while I slept, other times while I was being held down and mobbed. The process of cartilage and blood vessels being regrown is unpleasant, not unlike an exaggerated sense of a good shot of strong sake down the throat. But by far, eyeball regeneration is by far the most painful, far more painful that having them ripped out by angry fingers.

Inhumane, you think? We jinchuriki have lost the right to humanity.

I've lived a hard life. Without my healing powers, I'd be dead ten thousand times over. But then, if I didn't have the thing that gave me my healing powers, I'd have never been attacked. Never been hated.

Never been betrayed by the people I've been protecting since birth.

Never been killed. Even my unbeating cardiac tissue can be repaired. Asystole, as I heard a medic once call it, is nothing but an annoyance to my healing factor; an obstacle that takes but a small amount of time to overcome. Bones mend flawlessly. Brain tissue can be regenerated to such a precise, infinitesimal degree that even the connections between synapses and cells are duplicated perfectly, so even my memories will stay intact when my brain is damaged. I even maintain a form of self-awareness, when by all definitions my body is dead.

Would you believe me if I told you I've seen the threshold between life and death, walked that fine line? I have, many, many times. I've always felt like that if I took that one step to the side, gave up my will to live, my healing factor would have failed me. One more proverbial step, and I could have been free of life's obligations. But no matter how many times I considered it, I never did.

Sometimes, I wonder how I am still sane…and then, I remember that I am not. Not completely. Maybe not even at all.

When other children received the milk of their mother as infants, I received rat poison. When other children first learned to walk, talk, and read, I learned to play dead; my blood covering my body and praying my assailants would leave. When other children received presents and toys on their birthdays, I received beatings, torture. My 'birthday parties' were open to everyone who could come, and every enjoyed hitting the 'piñata'. Me.

Heh. I guess other kids should be jealous of me. Who else gets treated like it's their birthday everyday?

But the pain, it created me; it gave birth to me as much as my unknown mother did. It forged me. It made me who I am.

Every morning, I drag myself out of the dumpster, or the sewer, or wherever I fell asleep (or, depending on how successful my pursuers were at catching me, wherever I was beaten unconscious). Every morning, the physical signs of my wounds are gone; whether the last night's lullaby was a serenade of blood, violence, and gore, or starvation, loneliness, and cold. The pain lasts, it is the only constant in my life besides the hatred of others. Whether it is a phantom pain of my own imagining or actual pain, I do not know. Unharmed on the outside, but utterly different on the inside.

Of course, my miraculous recoveries just affirm others' beliefs that I am a demon. Time to start a new day.

Yay.

One day, though, someone left me a full container of medical ointment. I woke up, naked, covered in my own dried blood, and it was in my hands. Now, this had happened a few times before…except this one wasn't poisoned; it didn't make my skin burn and peel, wasn't secretly acid or some such. This one…actually worked. It spread a foreign warm through my body, and a fraction of the pain faded away. Was it an accident? Someone meant to give me a poisoned one but switched it up with a salve that worked? Or was it intentional? Did someone…actually want to help me?

Nah.

The very absurdity of the thought makes me laugh.

…

…

…

…but what if someone really did want to help me? What if…

If the medicine was a deliberate gift…One day, I will find that person. I find the overbearing urge to know who could care for one such as me, a jinchuriki. Foreign things well up within me as I consider it…could those things possibly be…emotions?

…It was probably an accident, anyways.

I bet you're wondering, why do I continue to protect this village; why have I made it my goal to protect those who have hurt me so? The answer is quite simple. If I do not…I will be killed.

I have no illusions regarding my own dispensability. The Kyuubi no Kitsune was sealed into me in order to give Konoha a weapon. Weapons are only useful as long as they strike out at the enemy, not the user. A faulty weapon is destroyed, and its metal is recycled, smelted down and reforged.

I've been attacked by ninja before, yes, but not by them. Them being the ones who made me, or the ones who know how to unmake me. If I become a threat to the village, I have no doubt someone will kill me, ripping the Kyuubi out of me and sticking it inside some other newborn. So I shout to everyone who doesn't give a shit that I will protect this village.

As if I have any other choice.

But in my own way, my own desire to fight against fate, I have added my own caveat. I'll protect this shitty village, yeah. But in return, I have to become the Hokage. A non-human, ruling over a population of all humans in the name of peace, humanity, and understanding. The irony kills me. It is the greatest extent of revenge I can ever have safely, to rule over those who have made me what I am today, forged me through blood and pain.

Until I have that strength, though, I must continue to appear nonthreatening, lest I bring more hate upon myself.

Hate breeds pain. Pain breeds death. Death breeds…well, if I ever get there, whoever managed to kill me deserves a fucking medal, given how difficult to kill this jinchuriki.

Is it right, that one so young as I should experience so much suffering and pain?

Who am I? How old am I? What am I?

My name is Naruto Uzumaki.

I am ten years old.

I am a jinchuriki.

Review, pl0x. Too dark or just right?