They say that a song for the dead speeds their journey, yet I only write to ease my own pain, and anyways, who is they?

Here's how I think these guys went, and here's what I forced myself to gain from the loss. They are ranked from easiest to...well, most difficult. Some tears, no tears, lots of sisters think I'm crazy. Well, here's my canon goodbyes to Hidan, Deidara, Kakuzu, Jiraiya, Asuma, and Itachi. RIP.


by greeen see-through ghosts

Here I am, buried beneath blankets of earth and stone, with the taste of soil and blood ground into my teeth and the fire of unbearable pain burning every mutilated section of my body.

There's nothing more fucking natural than death. Is anyone paying any damn attention to life? That's how I'm different than you -- from the moment you fuckers take your first breath, you begin to die.

For you, every damn moment is a disgusting combination of life and death, when you must breath to live, but each breath takes you closer to your death. I bet your cells fall apart with every step you take; I bet when you blink, you lose a part of your sight that can never be brought back. Because you fuckers are dying every moment of your damn lives.

But that's how it's fucking meant to be! And yet here I am, and my eyes never fail, my lungs never collapse, and nothing I do to myself brings me a fucking millimeter closer to death.

You live and die.

I live.

That's why Jashin chose me. Someone who goes against his natural way of the world…someone who could never achieve the desires of the divine on his own. He chose the most unworthy, the most fucked up, the most deviant, and turned it into something he could use.

Because that's how gods work.

And so I'll wait here, death as far from me as it's ever been. I'll wait here forever, and if Jashin finds it in him to use me again, I will rejoice in his infinite grace at giving me another chance to die. I'll do his will -- I'll do anything I can for the hope of a miracle.

Get with the damn program.

You, motherfucker, are blessed.


(Death is never to be feared.)


An explosion. ROY of every shade, shrapnel, choking fumes, billows of smoke.

I always knew that was how I would do it. And I always knew that I would do it. No other would have the honor of creating such a masterpiece as my death. My death was mine, as my life had been before Akatsuki took over. My decision, my creation, my passion, my life.

I took it back when I killed myself.


(Death is freedom.)


His heart broke eons ago. Could he even remember how?

Yes. The memory never left. Memories weren't like money; they insisted on clinging to the inside of his mind, make him weak, making him hurt, making him long for death. He'd ignored them for ages, even walling that part of his mind away from the rest.

Memories were weakness. But here at the end, they were all he had left.

She'd been pretty, but not the sort of beauty that made millions. She'd stolen that first heart of his with a smile, then given him her own. Hers was the only heart he'd ever had the chance to accept; hers was the only heart he'd lost.

Since then, he'd taken so many in search of the same feeling. But when they died, their hearts continued to beat inside his chest. Hers had stopped; hers had never beat again.

Beat: it meant a painful defeat, or to be hurt by another. And with each throbbing beat of a heart inside his body, he felt the toll it took. That which kept him alive chained him to pain.

But now, he had no hearts that would beat.

As he closed his eyes for the last time, her face jumped into focus in front of him, more than a mirage, more than a vision. And when her cool touch brought an end to everything he'd ever known, ever fought for, ever existed for, he wondered briefly why he'd never thought of dying to reclaim the elusive and invaluable feeling he got when she smiled at him.


(Death will bring home that which was forever lost.)


He was born with compassion, tears that dripped from his eyes, scaring skin and soul alike. In the younger days, in the times when life was fun and games and friendship, he could hide it behind nonchalance, facetiousness, and flippancy. But as he grew older, the scars grew longer, leeching from his guarded eyes with the essence of sadness, torment, regret. The things he sees. The things he feels. The things he knows.

Now he is old, and his tears draw the eye like an unprotected town draws the rapacious criminal. They are not blood, but rather, the blood that is revealed when the surface is rubbed raw under the force of salt and sorrow. Tears drip down his face, curving gently from the jutting cheekbones to the weathered cheeks to the drooping skin of his neck.

He was ugly; he knows. He was perverted, and led a one-track life, and spent too many days hiding from the things that made him cry: he knows this. And yet he wonders, now, as salt-tears trace the crimson line from eye to chin, how he hid the obvious for all those years.

How he cried without drawing the attention of a single soul.

He wonders if she will see the irony when they say Pein killed him, for she is the only one who can begin to say she knew him. Wasn't it pain that began the lengthening of the red scars all those years ago? He thought it was, but perhaps the triggering emotion had been fear, or frustration, or anger.

He hated to think that it had been anger.

Even now, even as he was laid to rest in the depths, he would cry. When would she open her eyes and see his tears? When would she comprehend his endless grief?

It was too late. He closed his eyes, and as a new brand of darkness crept over his aged face, those red lines dissipated across the skin, sinking into every wrinkle and hollow, spreading out their poison until they fell away from his skin, hanging in the water above him as he drifted to rest against the end of the world.


(Death will wipe away your tears.)


He'd been ready. Maybe he even knew. Maybe he guessed. He'd always been a lucky guesser.

He didn't like it. But, who would? Who would want to die? Who would want to be stolen?

He had no words. None to express the implosion of his emotions. None capable of making their way through blood-filled lungs. No more that needed to be said.

He was dead, and yet that wasn't why he was sad. He just wasn't sure that she understood. He'd done his part, and though he could have lived a while longer, that sleek steel pike made this his time. He knew she wouldn't like it. But they'd had their time, their days, their love.

Time had not been stolen. Every bit of it that had been allotted to him had been used. He had no regrets. That did not mean it was easy. He longed for her, in that moment, thirsted unquenchably, but soon enough, the pain was no more because time was no more.

That did not mean the earth stopped mourning.


(Death may not seem fair, but the time of its coming is, and will be without changing.)


When an accomplished actor leaves the stage, he is often called back for another performance -- a reprise, or repeat. They express their appreciation of him and request more of his talent. The crowd calls him back for their enjoyment; the people scream his name and refuse to be silent.

He was the greatest actor of all. The role had been impossible, but acted expertly. His emotion had never colored his actions; instead, he took on the costume of the one who feels absolutely nothing. He had performed perfectly; he had left the stage silent, gasping, mourning, in awe.

But, there would be no encore.

And so, for the first time in many years, Uchiha Itachi relaxed. His role had ended. His journey was over. For the first time, he allowed himself to feel the shame, the self-hate, the loneliness, the corruption that came with the costume and script. There would be no more tense waiting for the proper cues. There would be no more rules against changing lines. There would be no more appearances, no more forced actions, no more of this hell called life.

He could finally let go, finally smile, finally cry, finally rip his heart out and broadcast it to the world at large. And yet it was all too late, because he was leaving the stage, and no-one ever sees what the actors do once they are behind the curtain.

But one thing he knew beyond all else -- one truth hovered in front of his eyes, one fact gave him the ability to unleash his pain.

He'd succeeded. There was no need to go back; there was no need for an encore when he had achieved every success possible while on stage.

And yet…

Sorry, Sasuke. There won't be a next time.


(Death really is the end. But why do we think that's such a bad thing?)

There. If possible, this has made me feel better. Naruto has been so depressing lately, especially since I've been so behind that I've read all of these deaths in rather quick succession. Still...I miss them. :(