disclaimer: the lovely song that inspired this (not-so-little) fic belongs to paramore the (uberawesomeultraamazingabsur dlygood) band. and the two Mara Dyer books (the unbecoming + the evolution) that partly inspired this.
dedication: to anyone who loves psychotic heroines and flawed heroes. (like yours truly, duh.)
notes: I lovelovelove writing this pairing. (it's crack & non-canonical to the rest of ze Narutoverse, but who cares? pshhh.)
.
.
.
title: hello cold world
summary: it's such a cold, cruel world and I can't get out — Hana/Itachi
—
.
.
.
.
1.
after
.
.
.
konoha hospital providence; konohagakure
—
The girl stirred from her deep drug-induced sleep/coma in an unfamiliar bed as she breathed in the vaguely familiar scent of hospitals; of antiseptic and sterilized cleanliness. The methodical beeping of the life-support machines she was hooked to filled her ears. Her head was throbbing sharply – the pain piercing into the depths of her temple - as her dark brown eyes slowly pried open to the sight of cold, white fluorescent lights on the ceiling. Her sight was dotting with white spots at the edges, blurring slightly before coming into focus as they vaguely acclimated to the unnaturally bright atmosphere of the room.
It was fairly big and she pretty much had the room all to herself; despite being sparsely furnished (a worn-out two-seater sofa sat opposite her bed, the movable table pushed to the far corner of the room and there was a little side table next to her bed — but that was that) and reeking of fresh paint.
Obviously the place she was stuck in now was quite...new and shiny.
The girl fiddled with the tube sticking up her nose, trying to remove it - before noticing the ones on her wrists, attached to the needles that protruded from her skin. She felt the bile rising to her throat, nausea slowly taking over her panicking mind as she held back a scream that threatened to escape her lips.
A man her age – dressed and geared in what she'd labeled frequently as standard doctor gear; white coat, glasses sitting in the bridge of his nose, stethoscope hanging on his neck – sat near the edge of her bed, his dark obsidian irises staring back at her with a look that was a cross between empathy and sheer curiousity. His long black hair was mussed, almost out of the neat ponytail he'd tied it into and the tear troughs underneath his eyes made him look ten years older than his real age despite the pale, unwrinkled skin. The sleeves of his coat was rolled up neatly to his elbows, revealing perfectly muscled arms.
He was simply too good-looking to be a doctor, she thought; but a face like his would never look out of place on a movie or drama set. Not that she'd ever saw anyone that even remotely looked like him, anyway - he was the handsomest man/doctor/non-actor guy she had ever seen throughout the short span of her life. And the fact that he was here proved he had the brainpower to match, as well. He'd said nothing the whole time but he did grin slightly at her as she checked him out, colour staining her pale cheeks as she felt herself redden.
The screams made their way out of her throat, her voice sounding slightly strangled and hoarse; as he stepped closer towards her - close enough to touch - and gave her a better view of him.
He morphed into something that could be described simply as both too grotesque to be human and too primal in an otherworldly manner to even be an animal; his irises turning an unnaturally bright shade of red (tears of blood tricking down his cheeks), his then-white clothes now stained in a mixture of ashes, blood and grime, the grin on his lips forming into a maniacal smirk before he finally disintegrated into a murder of black crows that flew outside through the window, before a series of blurry, dizzying images started flashing in front of her eyes
— the ceiling of her hospital room came crashing on top of her head, the mixture of plaster and cement and electric wires strewn all over the floor; the four walls surrounding her crumbling and exploding down, the glass panes shattering and flying wildly in all directions (she felt a few little shards embedding themselves into her skin) – and the blood-curling voices (or were they shrieking? she couldn't differentiate) in archaic languages whispering into her ears, vicious words speaking of death and destruction.
And then she felt a sharp jab on her left wrist as the drugs absorbed quickly into her bloodstream; slowing down her rapid pulse to a normal rate and making her feel more than just slightly drowsy — before the myriad of images and sounds faded and everything fell into a dark (calming) blank.
—
.
.
.
.
.
notes ii: it is supposed to be this short, yes. but more to come in the next updates. (till then, do pray and hope that i don't lose my train of thoughts and jumbled-up words and random lone conversations in my car and dreams that make up the most of my ideas.)
notes iii: do review. (if you'd like.)