AN: This story will not be extensive actually. It will shed light on the PTSD that Kakashi had acquired from both the death of Obito and Rin and will merely ghost through that topic. The ending will be as unfulfilling as how Kakashi would feel.
Red. Vermillion. Velvet. Mahogany. In the end it all meant the same. All held the same significance and one was not above nor below the other, but rested in an equanimous line. In the dreams of the only Hatake, where darkness would be ubiquitous and silence pervasive, where there lie no chirp of a bird, or croak of a frog, where the air would be cold and yet his skin would remain warm, when there were so much words to verse and yet none good enough to say. It all remained condensed in his tiny body, casting a vendetta against himself. He felt it again, how his hand slid through her wintry body, a quick stab against her chest, taking out her heart as the obstinate chirping of the electric blue Chidori would cast itself between her flesh, leaving nothing but a hollow hole. He would allow her cumbersome body to rest against his and nearly he could sense the Sanbi's unwieldy weight, and yet despite the toilsome weight would he allow a free arm to wrap around her body, growing colder and colder in his arms. Tears would streak down his face and nearly he would become a prisoner of his own mind, shackled down, unable to be liberated. No, with this hand, with that jutsu, would he never be able to vindicate himself—and he would allow the darkness to consume him whole, like he was merely a sail in the midst of a tempestuous storm, tenuous and feeble against the casting winds.
Drip, drop.
His eyes would slide open and welcome the golden morning, shining upon him intruding on his sleep. Shifting in his place, limbs struggling to shelter themselves beneath a thin sheet of blanket, he would awaken, one eye charcoal dark and the other a horrid red. He wondered if Obito could see what he saw, felt the pain and the lamentation that plagued the rest of Kakashi's days. If Obito was spared from his scourge, then he would gladly welcome the maltreatment if only if allowed his friend a moment of repose. This life—it was *meaningless.* Pushing himself up using his elbows, he would wipe the sweat that had collected on the broad of his forehead, pushing by light strands as he heaved a sigh. The sun was so bright today; what a repulsive sight.
He would occupy himself with missions, something to take the weight off his mind, and yet whenever he would drill his hand through their chests, smell the mordent scent of blood and the faint resistance they would put up, would he only be reminded of her. She was a benevolent kid, a cheerful and upbeat individual whom Kakashi had adored inside. She had forgiven him; he was sure, and yet he couldn't shake off the feeling of his sin coming by to watch him as he'd find his way to her gravestone.
Body fatigue and barely alive, blood soaking him from top to bottom—not his, but someone else—he would crouch in front of her grave mark and trace the meticulousness of her printed name against a frigid cold slab. "Rin," He would croak, his voice raspy from his reticence, from his distance, from his loneliness. "How have you been?" Gloved fingers would be met with firm stone and yet the wind would only answer a brief hello and an empty goodbye.
Once he had returned to the safety of his bed, feeling the softness underneath him, he would allow himself to retire for the night, only to be awakened by the sickening urge to regurgitate, that or the scrubbing of calloused and battered fingers would commence, scrub, scrub, scrub until the last pints of blood would clear, and yet to no avail. It was mostly ghostly pains nowadays, at most he would spend the maximum of five hours cleaning in between his fingers, trying to scratch it off. It happened often and something that he had learned to loathed and yet was engrossed in, as every tick of a tock would pass by.
Empty.
He felt that all the time, every time he would turn his body, move a limb or muscle would he feel detached, aloof and austere, his eyes that would be filled with insouciance. It was like he was another person, something that lived in the wrong body or he supposed he did. It was supposed to be Obito. He was supposed to live, next to Rin and to Minato who although; watched Kakashi from afar was not able to sift through his predicaments.
Obito only had one wish and that was the wish to protect Rin, because she mattered and yet her sacrifice was in vain. Kakashi didn't feel like living anyways. What was the point? When everyone in the village was conditioned a fighter, a soldier, then what was the point of living? If the strong protect the weak, then who would protect the strong? Weren't they all pawns in a cruel game of chest?
The shinobi world was unfair. He knew that much.
He would be faced with old familiar faces, friends that he had distanced himself from and they would smile at him with glee, try to wrest the dismal out of him and yet they would come out unsuccessful. A moody stare, or a distant leer, those would be the only thing they would receive as the latter would stuff penitent hands into the weavings of his pockets.
What as life?
To live, to die? What was the point of it all?
He could make up a mask; he could build up a fortress, impeccable even to the most formidable of men, and yet it wouldn't change his composition. He was still himself in the end of the day, wasn't he? The same man who killed his friends and his family.
Sometimes, when he would stand in front of her gravestone, flowers in hands, his eyes downcasted, he would hear the conversation of the breeze, and sometimes, at the back of his mind, he could discern it.
"Wearing a mask doesn't change who you are Kakashi."
"it doesn't erase the things you've done. "
Purposely, it would hit Kakashi in the core where he was soft and recovering and he would draw out a sharp breath, like a sinner ready to repent for his sins, counting, "how many days until Hatake Kakashi dies?"
What was the point when he felt so
Empty?