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The Cruelest Torture by TTM

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Chapter notes: All characters and settings are property of their owners.

Any original content, including this work of Fan Fiction, remain my own property, to do with as I wish. If you wish to use any or all of this work, email me.
**********

The ceiling fan turned lazily in the late Spring heat, forecasting a taxing Summer to come as the weak draft it circulated around the bedroom reached the lone occupant, clothed in casual attire for his day off as he lay across the unmade bed below.

He was drunk again. Empty Fire Country bottles lay around his messy room, the filthy den his only haven from the outside world.
But his greatest enemy remained with him in this, the most sheltered of his haunts. Himself.
[i]
Why does my appearance make such a difference? Is it that much of a crime to look the way I do? [/i] he thought in the depths of his melancholy, the room muggy and dark from the drawn shutters.

The beer helped. As he tipped another Fire Country back, the amber ale draining from the frosty green glass, that feeling of warmth and dullness reinforced itself, causing him to blink a few times as the alcohol did it's work on his worries.
Already his body was numb, legs only vaguely aware that they were part of a larger entity, and the crown of his head tingled gently but not unpleasantly, tendrils descending along his rosy cheeks and neck like a great spider, slowly paralyzing his sense of touch.
And pain.

[i]Who am I? I am just another book judged by their cover. A nobody who no-one wants to have to spend time with.

Even now, after all this time, after I have proven myself to my teammates and friends again and again it accounts for nothing. People look past my merits and see what I look like, a great loser.

Not even worth getting to know.

Why? Is it my fault that I look this way? Can I be to blamed for who I am? Can a cockroach be blamed for being ugly? Or a wolf for killing sheep from a farmer's flock?[/i]

His feelings were returning. A great burning sorrow which only alcohol doused.

How he wished he could be accepted. Like Shikamaru, or Kiba or Shino.
Those guys could do whatever they wanted. No matter who's party it was, they could just turn up and everyone would simper and fawn over them.

[i]But when I turn up, it's like I have some great sickness which they can contract simply by saying hi.
Not that it stops the insults. I try and I try to ignore them but to no avail. Sooner or later one of the stones they cast will strike me. And all of them are jagged.

And then there's HER. The object of my devotion.
I've loved her since long before we were paired together at the Academy.

You know, it's a horrible irony. No, it's the cruelest prison.
I see her every day, and slowly we've become nigh unseperable. Our team is one of the strongest around, and outside of work we hang out all the time.
But every time I see her, I feel weak. Her laugh makes makes me feel like I could conquer the greatest of enemy.

And her sapphire eyes. I cease to exist when I look into them.

But she's never even remotely thought of me like I think of her.
The fact that we're best of friends is the prison. And even though some will tell you to never give up hope, I know I have a life sentence.

We know all of each other's secrets. But I have never revealed my true feelings for her, lest I destroy what fragile connection we already have.
[/i]
As he sullenly considered this the figure hurled his empty bottle across the white room, glass sailing above strewn clothing, kunai and discarded communique.
When it hit the opposite solid plaster the green bottle bounced into a discarded shuriken with a loud clink.

Opening another beer and downing half of the bottle in one pull, the Ninja continued to beat himself up, staring absently at the wall surrounding the rim-haloed shutter.

[i]Sometimes I wonder why I bother waking up in the morning.
If I disappeared, no-one would notice. My friends would forget me in an instant, and a new member would be assigned to my team.

She wouldn't even care. A new member. Young blood. Someone attractive, and worth considering as something more than just a teammate.

No-one would even mourn my passing.[/i]

Truly alone in the world, he tried to tip back the bottle, but he stopped.
Not even the all-consuming stranglehold of inebriation would help anymore.

"What's the point?!" he yelled in frustration, hurling the bottle with all of his might at the wall opposite the foot of his bed.
The glass shattered loudly, sending a spray of errant beer and the stench of yeast circulating the bedroom thoroughly, thanks to the fan.

Not able to do anything, tears rolled down his cheeks as he lay alone.

[i]As I always will.[/i]
Chapter end notes: Did you work out who I wrote about? :)
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