Disclaimer: Believe me, if I owned Naruto, my favorite characters wouldn't keep dying.

I completely and totally forgot that after I put up the first chapter I tweaked the story. So yes, if you read anything about murder here, well, IGNORE THAT I GUESS. THE ENDING IS A SURPRISE. You'll find out if anyone dies or not by the end of it, now won't you? :3

Sequel to Sweet Dish

A dimly lit room extends from his growing vision as his eyelids shift open, the entrails of sleep drudging away reluctantly. The TV sits as it had been when slumber claimed him, playing an endless infomercial pitching a 'superior kitchen set'. He stares at the screen for a moment before he remembers why he'd turned it on in the first place.

The knives…

As if on cue, he throws the pocket knife that he had dug into the plush of the easy chair he resides in at the wall, watching it wiggle as the plaster gave way beneath it, catching the knife and holding it stationary. He stares at it for the longest time, before he stands and wanders upstairs to shower.

His soap burns as it runs in his eyes, but he smiles against the pain, making no move to wipe them clean. A song starts deep at the back of his throat, gurgling to an abrupt halt seconds from his lips.

He falters for a moment, letting a sudden scream of frustration reach past his tongue and let loose on the air, sinking into the tub. His nails reach deep into his skin, drawing blood and watching it join the water on its journey down the drain.

He loves pain, he really does.

Dressing in a loose pair of pajama pants and a tank top, he meanders into his kitchen and grabs a cup of vodka.

The stronger the liquor, the weaker the delusions.

He likes vodka. Strong enough to dull his senses but still weak enough for his beloved fantasy to seep through.

His empty laugh again fills his house, and he returns to the television, muting it and watching a few minutes of an acne infomercial. No one cares about that.

He opens the bottle of pills next to the chair and pours the contents into his hand, looking them over like precious jewels before dropping them, one by one, back into the container.

He's mentally ill, and he revels in it.

He hears the sound of a knock at his door, and he sighs, shuffling in from his den.

Signs of his paranoia are scattered around the house, and his hand finds the hilt of the knife embedded into the wall by the front door.

Opening the door carefully, he's both horrified and pleased to see Sakura perched on his doorstep, looking like she'd rather bolt and never look back than finish whatever it is she came to do.

He knows that the instant she comes inside, his fantasies will start to come true.

She looks around with a soft sigh before fixing her gaze upon him. Her stomach is not swollen as he had expected it to be, but he can no longer recall time, so he's far from sure. "May I come in?" Her voice drags him back from his darkened thoughts.

He lets her in, leading her to the kitchen where the empty vodka bottle sits next to a meat cleaver that he's left sitting there for ages.

Looking around his house, she feels herself grow more and more worried. That feeling is only amplified when she hears Sasuke laugh and pull out a chair for her like a true gentleman. "Sit," he coos, pouring her a cup of coffee in the same mug she had used so long ago, washed only once to remove her taint and locked away.

Oh, how he hated her.

She's visibly shaking as he sets it before her, dropping in a few cubes of sugar and pouring in some silky cream. He then watches her intently, waiting for her to drink it.

Slowly, she raises the cup to her lips and takes an experimental sip. After she deems it safe to consume, she drinks it as fast as the scalding liquid allow.

Sasuke's grin deepens.

Let the games begin.

Stay tuned!
The next chapter is where it gets violent.