Please read the author's note after reading the below listed drabble, as it is significantly important over matters with when I will update a serious story or one-shot afterwards.
The whisper of death is just beyond the friction of scarlet ruffles rubbing against silk sheets, the tones both entirely enticing and frighteningly similar. There is the simple knowledge of when this happened, like he remembers the dull mockery of Itachi's voice that came out more truthfully than from his brother's throat as the corpses of their parents hit the floor. Everything is utterly truthful here, where words are only in between the awkward smear of lips and the wood boards scolding them with Mikoto's accusational finger grinding the sin into their foreheads, places Itachi presses his forefingers into as he smiles and shows Sasuke that the limbs he touches him with are, if anything, worthless. He can hold a kunai with his thumb and ring finger and not waste the effort of making any of his body parts significant.
Sasuke wonders briefly if he can cut off the limbs Itachi uses on him now. Do your hands mean something, or can you hold the shuriken with your ankles? There is another scream from the tatami mats, bloodstains shaping into the form of a long-deceased mother because if Itachi is already breaking words than she can surely defy the fact her son imprinted into everyone's heads that she is dead.
Skin on skin is an awkward cry not suitable to the ones flooding out of their lips like Fugaku's scorn. He is still hiding in the curve on the tips of their noses and the firm way they hold their shoulders, so no one can push them down.
Mikoto's resemblance to them is enough so she is alive in every judging glance of the passerby or the distant glare of their reflection in the mirror. Itachi can slaughter every man who was ever related to him, but he does not go so far as to shed every feature of his body that is still shying away from the ideals of a man who has no family. It is still there in bold print, in the all-knowing laugh of the townsfolk that, you've still got a mother, boy, and your father is on the tip of your nose instead of right underneath it, so he's not something you can hide.
She rises over the bedspread and the shadow of her brings the kunai into Itachi's chest. Everything is truthful here, the smile on Itachi's face and the blood on Sasuke's hands that tells him it wasn't a dream and he just did something very, very wrong.
Mommy's slap resounds across the room, but Sasuke doesn't remember whose hand it is.
AN: Well, this was just a 'practice' drabble to exercise myself so I can get ready for something serious, but if ya'll like it anyway that'd be pretty damn tight. I still love reviews, meaning you get the honorary…
REVIEW PLEASE!!!
(I've still got it baby! Boop boop be doop, ah!)