Parents

Chapter 1

The soil was parched and the color of dried blood, slightly bleached from being in the sun. A lizard skittered across Christopher's field of vision before vanishing behind a rock. The sun blinded him, and made it painful to raise his head, so all he could see was the ground, the dry cracks lines of black over the iron-red soil, the little creatures scurrying over it to avoid him. He felt like an intruder, a jutting pillar of soft flesh compared to their rough scaly hides. Though he couldn't see it, he knew his shadow must be stark and obvious, casting over the rocks and stubble behind him.

Christopher had lived in Arizona most of his life, and knew well the cactus and the snakes and the sun. His dog, Murphy, had died from the bite of a copperhead, and Christopher had heard before that rattle whenever his foot had gone down in the wrong place. To him, the rattle had always sounded comforting in some way, like a small maraca played without a human hand. The sound was different, and the threat it symbolized was frightening, but the sound itself was merely another sound of the desert, like the wind over vast open spaces and the silence that heat makes as it rises at the height of noon. These sounds were the sounds Christopher lived with and knew well. These sounds were the ones he liked to hold close to his conception of home.

Home for Christopher was the small pastel pink house he lived in with his mother. Some might call the little place dirty, but Christopher was a little boy, and did not have the ability to notice either way. The windows were covered in venetian blinds, which were always closed and never dusted. The only door that was ever closed was the screen door, it's aluminum frame rattling every time it was opened and closed.

Christopher knew the sound intimately, having lived there since he was a few months old, back when their family had bought the new house hopefully, dreaming of moving up in the world and prospering. Christopher's father, who had died years before in a flood, had taken the family's hopes for a larger home and a brighter future with him. What had been intended to be an only-for-a-few-years home turned into a forever one, one the family had to cling to.

Unaware of this rather depressing fact, Christopher only knew the faded pink couches, the wooden (plastic) floors, and the little tv that served as the centerpiece for the main room. His room was small, but it was cozy. The curtains muted the sunlight, so that his bare walls and bed and bookcase were bathed in a dull, syrupy blue light. It was soothing to him after the long days spent walking the desert.

His mother was a woman bleached by the sunlight; unconsciously, Christopher always grouped her in with the worn couches and chairs, and the plastic siding of their little house, cracked like the ground, and the floors worn and scuffed with years of dirt and dust. She had been beautiful once, but Christopher did not understand this. She was still kind and gentle, but like a worn blanket now, one that has been loved and given comfort so well the seams were slowly pulling out with every use. Now all of her beauty was in her demeanor, the grace of which was lessened by her slouch and heavy wrinkles. Even so, Christopher loved her, though he did not have the capacity to appreciate her. There were many things Christopher could not do.

Ouch!

Lost in his thoughts and unaware of anything but his feet, Christopher had walked right into something. Someone?

Looking up, and up, and up, he saw it. It was a man, taller than anyone Christopher had ever seen before, handsome and kind. His eyes were soft and warm, and he was slightly stooped, as though ducking to avoid a low-flying bird. He worn jeans with patches and holes, and a flannel shirt. To anyone else, he would have looked a little slow, but not to Christopher. This is because Christopher was a little boy.

Upon further inspection, Christopher noticed that the man was, in fact, a statue. The lack of movement and the monotone color were the giveaways, though Christopher can be excused for thinking of the man as real. He was so warm, and looked as though he were about to open his mouth and say something wonderful. After a time of just looking, Christopher sat down. Then he curled up and fell asleep.

Chapter 2

When he woke, it was dark, and seemed very cold. Christopher blinked muzzily at the vast expanse of unbroken land, black and blue in the light. There was a movement in the dark that might have been a coyote (though it could have been, and was, just Christopher's imagination). He felt afraid nonetheless. Suddenly, he felt the cold brush of a hand down his arm. Yelping, he turned around, but saw only the statue, smiling down at him warmly. Staring, Christopher realized that he was not comforted.

Getting up, Christopher brushed himself off and headed towards home, cold and stiff but otherwise fine.

The light was on when he approached, and the blinds were open for the first time he could remember. He could see his mother moving about rapidly, the tails of her apron flying out behind her in the kitchen, her movements quick and nervous like a hummingbird's. She paced back and forth beneath the fluorescent light of the kitchen, clearly visible through the window. He hadn't realized she would be so worried. Christopher started running towards home.

He could see the door clearly now, just to the left of the windows, shiny in the moonlight. Suddenly, there was a flicker of darkness in the corner of his eye. It was fast, like the shadow of an airplane flying low, and passed over the kitchen like a wolf or a wraith. Then it was gone, with only a feeling of dread in the boy that stopped him up short. Then his mother saw him.

She burst out of the kitchen, the door slamming out against the side of the house. She rushed up into the stillness of the desert, picked him up, and whirled him around. “Chris! I was so worried about you!” She hugged him tight for a moment, then put him down, her arms trembling, hands running up and down his arms as though to warm him. “Where were you all this time?”

Chris stood there, still, wondering how much to tell her. Too much would only make her emotional and even more worried. “I found a statue out in the desert,” he said gently. “And while I was looking at it, the sun was so hot and I was so warm that I just, well... fell asleep. I'm sorry if I worried you.”

She looked gently at him, his face silhouetted by the moonlight. Despite the promise of his parents, Christopher was not a cute little boy. His skin was darkened by the sun, and his legs and arms were strong from climbing, even though he was young. His chin and nose were rather too large for his face, and there was a flat dullness to his eyes. His cheekbones were high and prominent and his eyelashes were long; in all, he might have made a pretty girl, but as a boy did not fare very well. Despite his strangely emotionless eyes, he was sweet towards those he loved, and she knew Chris was very protective of her. “That's alright honey. Are you alright?”

“I'm fine mom. Just hungry.” At that he grinned at her, and jerked towards the house.

She stopped for a moment, processing. “Chris – you found a statue? In the middle of the desert?” He shrugged, nodded, and jerked towards the house again. She sensed there was more to the story, but was too upset and relieved to be able to draw it out if he didn't want to tell it. There would be time for that later. Softly, she sighed, and stood up, leaning down to kiss his forehead.

She drew Christopher towards the house, arm draped across him warm and comforting. Walking with her, he looked back over his shoulder, and almost thought he saw a glint, like light off of metal. But that was silly, of course. They entered the house together, and then his mother closed the door shut behind them.

Chapter 3

The first week after the statue in the desert, Christopher mostly stayed inside. Despite the kindness in the man's eyes, there had been something unnerving about him. Christopher thought he knew what that something unnerving was, but he was unwilling to voice it aloud or to even consciously acknowledge it yet. Instead, he stayed inside while his mother went to work, and instead of watching tv or playing with his legos, he read.

His mother, though a patient and good woman, was not a great reader, and Christopher had few books that were not simple children's stories. His father, however, had gone to college, and the family had a boxed collection of books the mother had been unable to throw away, though she had tried to force herself many times. Christopher had never looked at them before, but the morning after his time in the desert, he pulled the box out from under his mother's bed and carefully opened it.

Christopher had been expecting... he didn't know what he had been expecting. But it was not this. He had little conception of adult books, outside of his mother's romance novels, and had been expecting books with colorful covers, or maybe massive textbooks. Not this. He reached in and pulled out one, flinching at the feel of dry, yellowing paper and the dust on the cloth cover. Turning the book carefully, he saw on the spine in worn gold letters “Things of Legend.” Another one said “Uncommon Fairy Tales;” the next, “Space Giants.” They were all books about things Christopher had never been exposed to, but he now found their mystique fascinating. Though there were few pictures, he picked up the most colorful one and started reading.

Four hours later, he looked up. Though he had spent his entire life in the desert, far from any city lights, and could clearly see the stars every night, he had never thought much about them. Now he knew they were all suns, far away. He knew other things as well, but he couldn't quite connect the facts he had learned with the universe he saw above him. He looked back down at the book, and was lost again.

It was dark by the time his mother came home, and Christopher had not eaten all day, or even turned on the light. She found him slumped over the book, breathing softly, his back rising and falling. She picked him up and carried him carefully to his room, nearly tripping over books in the dark. His bed was rumpled, and she tucked him in as best she could without waking him up. Brushing his hair back from his forehead she frowned slightly. Sometimes he looked so little like his father, but now, sleeping like this, those dull eyes closed, they were very similar. Chris' face was usually so tense, and that combined with his dramatic features looked so stark. But now, he looked lovely, like a porcelain child. She worried about his coldness.

Getting up, she maneuvered back into her room, avoiding the pile of excavated books. Mark's books, she realized. He had been reading Mark's books. Her face crinkled up, and a tiny sob escaped her as she clutched the books tightly.

Chapter 4

Christopher woke on his side, staring at the cracks in the paint on his walls. He felt a strange sense of unreality; one minute he was reading about the theories on black hole formation, and the next, he was staring at cracks. Sitting up slowly, he muzzily stared at his feet, his toe sticking out of the hole in his sock, looking strangely disembodied.

Pushing the sheets aside and getting up, he opened his curtains, looking out at the dawn light, staring him right in the face. The sun flailed weakly at the land, and bluish purple shadows reached out towards the little house. He felt odd, as though he had been picked up and moved into another dimension. Everything looked slightly skewed to him, like he was dreaming.

Suddenly Christopher felt cold, and he abruptly shut the curtains and turned around, looking at the dark blue-stained sheets and mattress and carpet. Cutting off his view of the desert had not helped; he still felt tense and afraid and alone.

He eased open the door and looked out into the main room. The entire room was bathed in that same blue light, the pink couch almost purple, the shadows around the room deeper than normal. Looking in there, he realized what frightened him; everything was so still, as though there was no one in the world but him. Him and that statue. It seemed to dominate his thoughts whenever he let it. Christopher needed mom.

Venturing further into the house, being careful not to make any noise, he crossed the living room, checking quickly that the blinds were closed. Mother's door was closed, and there was no sound coming from the bedroom. Christopher opened the door slowly, careful to turn the doorknob all the way to the right so the latch didn't make any sound.

She wasn't there. Her bed was made, and the books were picked up. Christopher looked under the bed, and saw the box. All the books were in there. He took one out, and carried it into the living room, still looking for his mother. It was possible she had already left for work, but he'd be surprised, because it was so early still. There were no dishes in the sink, and the counter was bare. The entire house looked undisturbed.

Ambling into the kitchen, Christopher poured himself a bowl of cereal and ate it slowly, careful not to disturb the silence. His chewing felt too loud.

Still unnerved, but bolstered by his meal, he got up, washed the dishes, running the water as low as possible and putting the sponge where the water hit the metal of the sink, dampening the splashing sounds. He cleaned the bowl and spoon with his hands.

Afterwards, he took some books from underneath his mother's bed and carried them into his bedroom. Something about the still, serene bedroom, perfectly clean, and her bed, perfectly undisturbed, shook something in him. He shut the door silently, locked his door, and started taking the books out of his bookcase. There weren't many. Not nearly enough. Trembling slightly now, he shoved the bookcase in front of the door, first jamming some of the thicker books underneath the door, so that they were wedged tightly between the thick carpet and the door. Next he needed to fill the shelves. Everything available went on the bookshelves, especially metal things. Speeding up as he went along, he frantically crammed everything that could fit onto the shelves. Then, finally, he ran out of things. His race cars, his legos, his paperweight, his baseball bat, all had been sacrificed.

Feeling a little better defended, Christopher sat on his bed, careful to shove the covers aside in case he had to suddenly move. Then, with nothing else to do, he started reading. He read about all the strange things he had never heard of before, like ghouls and kobalds and Babba Yaga. He didn't realize it, because he had never been to school, but he was researching. He wasn't sure what, or if he would recognize it when he found it, but right now he was so afraid. His fears were formless, without reason or substance, and were so unlike Christopher. Christopher had never been afraid of anything, even the floods during spring that washed the landscape away and changed it; the same floods had even killed his father, but with them he did not feel afraid. He had never feared monsters in the closet, or ghosts, or murderers coming to their isolated house, in the middle of the blank desert lit like a beacon, though he had understood all these dangers. Now, only reading kept him calm.

As he read, a corner of his mind wondered about his mother. Was she just at work? If she came home, would the feeling go away, or would it swallow her up, leaving him alone forever? All he could do was read.

Around four, while the sun was still strong, Christopher encountered a problem. He was hungry. Hesitantly, he moved towards the door. Reaching over the barricade, he touched the doorknob lightly. Then he turned the handle. So far, nothing. Christopher got on his hands and knees, and pushed the bookcase to the side, slightly. Peeking underneath the door, the boy strained his eyes, and listened as hard as he could, reaching out with every sense he had, trying to feel... anything.

And something moved.

Christoper sprung back, and pulled the bookcase in front of the door frantically, covering all the cracks he could. All of his weight pushed it back against the door, his back muscles trembling, tears dribbling down his cheeks in long, wide tracks. He hadn't see it or heard it; he had felt it move, something passing within him and clenching his stomach in fear. He could feel it now, somewhere in the house. He sobbed silently, knowing that if his mother wasn't dead already, she would be when she came home.

He felt like a tiny rabbit, paralyzed by fear. He curled into a tiny little ball, pressing himself against the toys and clothing packed tight against his right side. The pointy metal sword of a knight jabbed against his quivering stomach, making it all incredibly real. He was not dreaming, and he was trapped in here. He could hear it now. It was slavering outside his door, hot breath coming in pants. Christoper heard the click of claws on the floor.

But it did not try to come in.

His mind raced frantically. Fighting back the tears, Christoper gathered himself. The books had said that night was a special time. This creature, one he knew meant him harm, might be waiting for the ideal time to strike. He had to escape before night. There was only one way out. The window. And from there, the desert. And if he braved there, the creature might follow him anyway.

Paralyzed by indecision, Christoper stayed there, curled up on the carpet, looking at the parts of the rug stained by the Kool-Aid he snuck into the room that one time, and the white spot from his chemistry experiment with the bleach. A tear rolled down the bridge of his nose and caught there, tickling him.  

His mother was dead. Or as good as. Unless he left, and it followed.

Christoper gathered himself. He was eight. He had never gone to school. His father had died when he was three. Christoper remembered his father's face, always kind and gentle and horribly handsome, but never anything his father had done. His only company, his entire life, had been his mother. He had never even had a pet. What he knew about social mores, he knew from mother, and from the tv that didn't work anymore. He had a vague, mostly self-guided set of morals that had been partially shaped by his mother and by his father, whose example had taught a great deal. He knew if he had a chance to save mother, he had to take it.

Besides, it was his only chance too. Realistically, the bookcase would not keep that out, whatever it was. Christoper imagined its sharp claws; how easy it was for them to tear through wood and send splinters flying.

Once his mind was made up, he moved quickly. He pushed the curtains over, shoved the window up, and shimmied out of the window head-first, catching himself and scraping his hands. Pushing up, he got started running as fast as he could until he was out of sight.

Eventually, he slowed to a walk. It was hot, and his back and face were covered in sweat. It dried on his skin, becoming a grimy, sticky layer that covered him all over. He uselessly rubbed his hands on his pants, and then started towards the only real shade nearby, the cliffs.

The cliffs were a few miles from his house, and formed a semicircle around the house. They effectively cut the house off from the nearest town, shielding them from the city lights and the any company. Every day, Christoper's mother had had to drive out and around the cliffs to get to the restaurant she worked at.

Now he headed towards them thankfully. He was so tired and so thirsty, but he was able to push forward.

Spring

I was born in the winter, on a relatively warm day in February. I became a writer because it was easy for me, and I was capable of making a living off of it, and because I wanted to.

My ideas were frozen on the city streets when I was younger, but when I grew older all the ideas that filled my world as daydreams spilled out, pouring off the ink of my quill. They didn't start out as particularly good ideas, and as they progressed I grew more and more fluid in my methods. For me, this was like spring, with the huge thaw; I was born in winter, frozen, and thawed. Or rather, my writing changed like this. The problem with the above metaphor is that I am equating myself with my words, as though I had no life outside of them.

I do, of course. Any character in a written piece is necessarily flat and lifeless. People are really quite infinitely complex, enough that even a five-novel analysis of a person is not enough; our lives, at least if we are interesting people, are compossed of the contributions of parents, friends, change occurrences, our childhood homes, our professions, our siblings – and so on. Impossible to enumerate, impossible to understand.

To give you some idea of who I am, and why anything I write should be listened to, I will give you three excerpts, real or imagined, from my life; this is commonly known, in the trade, as chiasuro. I shall attempt, through several small moments, to demonstrate a greater picture.

Reflecting upon my previous statements, I realize the arrogance of this exercise. It presumes, of course, that the examples, showing dozens if not hundreds of external influences upon a single character, are most important in their relevance to my life. As though I were the focus of all the events. As though among all the thousands I have met or who have had some effect upon my life, I were the most important.

The truth is, I should not be listened to for any merits of my own. Read this brief note, not because I wish it, but because there is something here. Something you need to hear. When I was young, I was told by a man I much admired, “I became a teacher because I wanted to be a writer, but had nothing to say. Only devote your life to something if there is a purpose to it; you need to have purpose.” My people were always particular about everything having a purpose.

And this is mine: I write. I write because I have something to say, that cannot be said in quite this way by anyone else. Instead of what this all says about myself, what does it say about you. Or your people. Or my people. As long as it has relevance, and purpose. Whether this entire message about purpose has more to do with writing technique or life I could not say.

But here they are, though I am not sure if they have purpose or point anymore. That is the difficulty, sometimes, in writing.

1

My sister used to put me to bed every night, tucking me in tightly. Her fingers were short and stubby but beautiful, because she put copious amounts of lotion on them every night before going to bed herself. My sheets were softer than her hands, but I never appreciated that as much as I should have. I didn't appreciate my sister enough either, though I understood her more the older I got. It took me longer to understand the value of material comfort; some things we must do without before we understand their value. What I am ashamed of here is that when they were taken away, the thing I missed more were the sheets.

2

My father was a barrister, and was there when they executed the serial killer of the century with a blow to the skull with a warhammer. It was apparently a quite messy death. I'm not sure if that is a key detail, but he came home that afternoon and first killed my sister in the bath and then himself. With a knife though, not a hammer. I was away at school, and found out about it during Theater.

3

Imad the Sane is listed in the history books as the death of my country: the death of Es-Annon. My city was beautiful in the way a hummingbird is beautiful, in that its true appeal lay in its fragility and motion. Its wings fluttered for a few thousand years in a flurry of motion and jeweled flashes, and then was crushed by the careless motions of the planes. Or by a dictator so sane he was insane; he crushed the fountains and the hanging gardens beneath his feet because they were not orderly enough, and killed all my people because they were unhygenic. My city was transient, and passed quickly out of time and mind.

4

I know I promised only three, but I cannot restrain myself. The main question here, for me, separate from any lesson to you, is this: If all my people are gone, and my city dead and forgotten, why am I still here, writing about it?

There is a logic fallacy here, I suspect.

Sasuke didn't recognize him at first. It had been years, and they had both grow up unbelievably fast. They were both adults now, but Sasuke would have known those shoulders, those feet, those hands, anywhere. He had, after all, been dreaming of him secretly for years, imagining the changes, the growth, the different timbre of Naruto's voice.

But there were more differences than he had anticipated; the hair was more red than blond now, and he was wearing plain blue scrubs. Most of all though, it was the stillness. He was facing the window, too still to be Naruto, Sasuke thought. Naruto didn't relax, he didn't give in. Naruto was never still.

Except he was. His arms were folded on the windowsill, his body leaning and relaxed, his head resting gently against the window. The entire room was empty except for the two of them, and for a second all Sasuke wanted to do was stand there a little, soaking up the sun and Naruto's presence. It had been years, but the dead-last's aura was still the same. Probably the same smile too, but Sasuke wouldn't have a chance to see that; he had a job to do. The sun made dust motes gleam in the air, and Naruto's hair blazed; Sasuke really wished he didn't have to do this.

Sasuke walked up towards him, masking his chakra completely, trying to be as silent as possible. A foot away, he moved quickly, pressing his body flush against Naruto's and a kunai tightly against his throat. No one could heal from a severed artery, not even a demon fox. To his surprise, Naruto didn't start, didn't move at all. Was Naruto drugged? Sasuke knew he must be when the other man's body relaxed back against his.

“Sasuke,” Naruto murmured, turning his head so that his lips brushed Sasuke's neck. “Bastard, what are you doing here?” Chilled by Naruto's soft, vacant voice, Sasuke looked down. Naruto's eyes were gleaming purple, which was alarming; even more alarming was their dreamy, dull quality. Naruto's hands moved up slowly, claws stained red, but instead of reaching for the weapon, they simply clasped loosely around Sasuke's arm.

“Naruto. I'm here to... to say I'm sorry. For everything, back then.” Naruto didn't even blink, just kept looking lazily at him. “Do you forgive me?”

“No,” Naruto whispered, grinning. His teeth gleamed.

“Why not?”

Naruto's grin widened, eerily showing all his teeth, all the way down to the molars. “Bastard, didn't you know? Love never dies.” Naruto reached down and took Sasuke's hand, moving it up, to over his heart. His voice came out thickly, emotion overwhelming the drugs. “I loved you, and it left scars on me. I could never get them away. I tried. And I always wondered why I couldn't scar you too. You still smell the same, like blood or incense. I could always detect that before I saw you; only you though. I didn't care enough about anyone else like that, I guess.”

Sasuke couldn't say anything for a minute, frozen by unfamiliar feelings. This... this was not Naruto. His grip around the kunai loosened, but Naruto didn't move away, or instantly take advantage of the weakness. Naruto just breathed in deeply, licking his lips. “I could smell you, you know. Behind me, walking up the stairs, coming down the street.” Naruto's eyes focused for an instant, “Are you here to kill me?”

“Yes,” Sasuke breathed. He could smell Naruto too, a soft scent that reminded him of home and explosives – saltpepper, maybe? - at the same time. It was his mission, given to him by Tsunade; the only reason he had been forgiven, and the only reason he had come, right here in his arms, smiling gently at him.

“Good.” Naruto pressed back against him, inhaling sharply. “I wouldn't let anyone else do it, you know. Not even Granny.” He chuckled a little. “The fox doesn't like her much, I'm afraid. But it likes you, Sasuke. It likes you a lot.” As though to emphasize his point, Naruto reached down and lightly rubbed at Sasuke's crotch.

Focus. Sasuke tightened his suddenly lax grip on his weapon. “And you, Naruto? Will you let me do this?” Naruto looked out of the window again. Sasuke realized that from this angle the Hokages' mountain was clearly visible; it was probably like vinegar in a wound for Naruto.

“I killed her you know. Not the fox. Me. I think...” Naruto's voice trailed off. Hollowly, “I think I just got tired of her making excuses for me. Sakura never did know when to stop pushing. The old me never would have done that. I'm changing, I think.” With an indolent grin, Naruto added, “I'm the villain now, Sasuke, and you're the hero. Will you bring me back home? Or try?” His claws tightened around Sasuke's hand, pressed it firmly to his heart. “I don't want to be someone I would have hated. Back when I was just me.”

Sasuke searched wildly for anything that would make sense, that would make Naruto understand, even if it was just now, in the last minute of his life. “You still smell the same as back then though.”

Naruto made a small sound like a sob, his nose rubbing against Sasuke's neck. Turning to look out the window, Naruto nodded sharply, claws digging into Sasuke's free hand.

Sasuke made it quick, moving his hand abrubtly deep and across. Blood splattered wetly against his face and hand. When he licked his lips, he could taste it.

A/N: So... this must have been done a hundred times already, but I had a dream about this so of course, I had to write it down. If you want a much better done rendition of this same Sasuke kills Naruto because he's a horrible fox demon so-on-and-so-forth concept, look for “Smoke in Spring” by Saro.