Innocent by day, murderous by night [Deidara story] 1

I slowly walked through the desolate streets of Konoha and inhaled the crisp night air. I couldn't sleep. I could never sleep. One reason being I had insomnia, the other reason being every time I fell asleep I would kill people until I woke up. I didn't want to have to leave yet another village, especially since I was so happy here.
I looked around at the ancient buildings, beautiful and everlasting, and wondered why I couldn't seem to stay in one place like they did. I had had to leave two other villages because I had fallen asleep and killed my family, friends, and some people I hadn't even known.
I sighed and walked with my head down. My sandy blonde hair whipped around my face as a gust of wind blew threw. I was really successful in Konoha; I was one of the strongest ninja in the village, I had great friends, and I had a place to call home. Unfortunately, though, I was almost always being watched. Villages just weren't that trusting of outsiders.
My footsteps seemed strangely loud in the quiet hallways of the apartment building I lived in. Everyone else was asleep. I arrived at the door to my appartment, which was on the third floor. I put the key in the lock, opened the door, then stepped inside and closed the door behind me. I went over to my bedroom and stood in the doorway, looking longingly at the single bed that was pushed up against the far left corner of the room. What I would give to be able to safely fall asleep and get lost in a pleasant dream, even for just one night, but that in itself was nothing more than a dream. It was never going to happen.
I sighed again and headed to the tiny kitchen that was on the far right of the small apartment. I grabbed a green apple from the fridge to munch on and sat down on the couch in the living area. The sweet, crisp fruit made my mouth tingle with delight. I smiled, remembering the first time Naruto had tried and apple. His face had puckered up at the unusually sour one, and he had spat it out and made a disgusted face.
I threw away the core and grabbed my writing notebook off the coffee table. I was writing a story about a 15 year-old girl who dies and turns into a ghost. So far I had about 20 pages.
After about 15 minutes of writing, I heard a sharp knock on my front door. I put my stuff down and walked over to the door, my heartrate quickening. I peeked through the peephole and immediately unlocked the door and threw it open; Mimi, the five year-old girl next door I sometimes babysat, was standing there with tears streaming down her face and blood splattered across her front.
"Help me," she pleaded, her grey eyes full of fear. "Somebody murdered my parents."