Adult-FanFiction.org : Naruto

Angel	By : Yaguchi Category: Naruto > Het - Male/Female Views: 1146 -:- Recommendations : 0 -:- Currently Reading : 0
Disclaimer: I do not own Naruto, nor any of the characters from it. I do not make any money from the writing of this story.

Chapter List
- 1-Angel
- 1
ANGEL
NOTES: I wrote this while listening to Sarah McLachlan's "Angel" - both the song and real life angst had a hand in this. Sometimes, you just gotta write the sad stuff, ne?
*~*
Blue and purple. The colours of injury, of bruises and dislocations.
I find myself unable to sleep and my world becomes distorted. I see things � flashes of what was. To look in the mirror I never would have expected that my flashes of what was meant so much blood.
Lilacs. Violets. Bluebells. Lupine. Roses. My fingers would catch on a thorn and it would all fade away to a sea of endless red.
My eyes feel like an hourglass has broken in my tear-ducts. The sands of time have drained away and swallowed my rivers whole.
I find myself watching as they walk away. I can see how they�ve all changed � how the deaths have changed them all forever. Smoke stings my eyes and they sting his and that�s why he cries. He cries because the smoke is the burning of his life, of their lives, of mine. He cries because when he puts the cigarette out he panics, fumbling to light another one to make it okay.
She walks with her head down and I can see it � people think I don�t see anything but I see it, the cloud that hangs over her and smothers her and pushes her to the ground. Her stomach swells as her eyes die and I think it�s eating her up � she�s giving her life to something new and she doesn�t regret it at all. And it makes me think.
I know it�s crazy. Crazy, how easily my hands slipped over his skin. It shouldn�t have been so silk-like. It should have been mottled with scars, with burn marks and stab-points that could only speak of what he deserved.
As my lips slam against his and our tongues choke each other I�m slipping film rolls into that rickety old projector in the empty theatre of my head. I sit in the dark alone, the conical light barely touching my pale hair as it embraces the screen and replays films. Stupid, romantic, idealistic dreams of three children and a man � a man whose smile never reflected the lines around his eyes.
I pull my lips away. He smells like forests and lakes and dirt. He smells old, timeless. The solid set of absurdly strong muscles are unmoveable beneath my hands and my mind slips away, unable to compete with this man who will never move, never die. I cannot win.
As he pillages me, plunges his cock into me, I hear him praying. I stare at the ceiling, the shadows taking form and twisting into a man falling to the ground, the hopes and hearts of others falling with him.
I�m unable to sleep again. I can�t tell what my heart wants anymore because it doesn�t seem to beat. I don�t want to see the smoke stinging my eyes or the tears that fill the sake cup on the table next to that almost burnt-out candle.
When he looks at me, he should be beautiful. His face is always sanguine and pointed into holy androgyny. Those eyes, like the freshest lilacs are always so clear that I can see my agony reflected in them. He looks so serious when he fucks me, like I�m something to be pondered over and considered.
For those minutes that his cock is pounding inside me and his hands pin my wrists down so I can�t hold him, I feel nothing. Even as that wave begins to rise over me, I see his tears, her hand stroking the stretched and tired flesh, and that mirror reflecting the girl who�s lost in the empty hourglass. The projector rolls it film, the laughter on the four people�s faces silent � the whole place silent but for the whirr of the machine and the whispers of prayer.
He always comes but he never looks pleasured. His eyes only come to life when I move away from him to sit against the wall, dying just a little more. He will watch me closely, seeing my breath shallowing as the projector rolls to an end and I see him, all pale rolls of muscle and purple hypocrisy.
He looks like he was meant to be an angel.
Fingers stroke down my cheek and my lips part. The smoke�s stinging my eyes again, and he�s still crying. I swallow hard as his fingers slip around my throat, tightening over the flesh. My natural end scalds me and I shake, for a moment my body feeling alive even as it begins to die once again and his fingers tighten.
Her hands cup her stomach, even as her shoulders shake. I watch her and wonder if it�s possible to love someone else even as you break apart. If it�s possible to give life to something even as you commit yourself to the soil.
I can�t breathe and his fingers are tightening ever more over my windpipe. The sweat on his brow from his climax drips off of his nose and runs down the curve of my cheek to the sheets below me. I burn � I feel and I burn � and he relaxes his grip a little and he says to me �
�Tell me your sins.�
I gasp and choke. Something�s wrong with my eyes � they�re blurring and leaking, bleeding, and I can�t see him. I want to see an angel but it�s the one thing I�ll never see.
I wonder how he can know I�m dying because my eyes were dead to begin with. I wonder if I�m beautiful in death like I never could be in life. The smoke must be stinging my eyes too, because they can�t stop watering.
I choke them out � stupid words in that language I�ve used every day of my short life. Words I�ve thought of many times before even if not in the same order. They shouldn�t mean anything. They don�t mean anything. I�ll never be liberated. But I say them anyway. Because everyone was meant to have dying words, even if mine weren�t for three grieving souls who needed them.
�I knew too much.�
- 1
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