He stared.
He stared and stared, quite unable to stop, really, eyes focused on that one image, as if he was trying to burn it into his mind. His hair was slick with sweat and blood, and a cut on his forehead bled, without signs of stopping, making its way to the hollow of his empty, unseeing eye socket, but even half blind, each little detail of the scene before him was forced into his brain, with the horribly sharp acuity of the Mangekou Sharingan he had just recently gained.
He was sure that is he was to just close his eye the vision might be lost; it was a fruitless thought, though, since he was also sure that this ungodly vision of his own imperfections -- his own foolish wants -- his own destructive fate -- would plaque him even after Death herself brought dainty fingers to his heart and ripped it out -- that is, if it was still there when she came a - knocking on the door. He could feel it twisting and screeching in his chest, and had more than half a mind to tear it apart with his own two hands.
Crimson liquid, ironic in that the very thing that had given life was the beautiful, eternal symbol of death, dripped from his fingers, the tip of his nose, the ends of his raven hair, every possible place in with a steady beat, even that little splash more ominous than the low boom of the angry drums used to keep rowing time on foriegn ships together, more frightening than the horrid, imagined screams of a banshee, filled his ears and he shook violently, before falling to his knees and retching, emptying his stomach on the hard - packed, blood stained dirt. His hands were being used to stabilize himself, lest he fall into his own stomach acids -- having not eaten in three days, there was nothing else in his stomach anyway -- and stared with morbid awe as rivulets of blood made their way down his pale skin, pooling about his hands. Deep wounds and old scars littered his hands and arms and finally gave into the strain. The limbs slipped from beneath his and he was sent crashing into the soil, into the blood, even the bile, which sent seering pain through his body where it met the cuts and scratches. The Uchicha clutched himself the sad imitation of a comforting embrace, curling up like the fragile child he was, the fragile being that had his fate sealed for him the moment Itachi betrayed him all those years ago. In his position, Sasuke Uchihas' was brought face to face with hollow blue eyes, tan, crimson - coated skin, blonde hair slicked back with blood.
There were tears, still fresh, hanging like christmas baubles from golden lashes. A sad smile, laced with finality, created tiny wrinkles arond his dead friends mouth.
He let out a choked hiccup and cluthed his chest, certain now his heart hadn't needed even his assistance to shred itself.
For the first time in many years, Sasuke Uchiha cried.
--
Heh heh ... Yeah. Look what I wrote! I got bored ... I love Sasuke so much. - So cute, so cute.
Love, Ai.
