Ravage
By xannychan
A/N: An AU, oh no! I never thought I'd be writing one of these, but it's been in my head for ages. I'm never, ever, ever updating this; I'm merely posting it up because it's been on here for almost a year. It's an okay start, but I don't have any ideas for this, though I might if something comes up. If you want, you can review with ideas if you have any.
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Haruno Sakura works in the psychiatric wing of Angelward Hospital, in the part of the city where everything is gritty, dirty, dark, oil stains on floor and peeling Formica counters at a greasy diner. The psychiatric wing is a wide, sprawling building of its own, connected to the main hospital complex by one underground route with dim blinking lights and the weight of insanity just above her head.
She hates her job.
Not that she's the only one. It's true, what her more experienced coworkers say; the more you hang around the crazies, the crazier you get. But it wasn't like that when she started this job. "I want to help people who need it," she used to say. "I want them to know that there is something they can do to make their lives better." And what did she have to show for it?
She hasn't seen her own apartment in a month without the haze of exhaustion, she lost her fiancée two years ago to a man, of all things, after finding out he was gay (Figures…), she hasn't eaten in days, she sleeps standing up in a cold shower, and her To Do list sounds something like I'm sure there was something I had to do today are they taking their meds I hope I don't have to work with the schizophrenic what the hell was it I had to do today when was the last time I saw a mirror I think I need a vacation where the hell is my 2 am coffee?
To put it in the simplest terms, she knows she's somewhere between twenty and thirty years of age and that she has not seen sunlight except through the barred windows of Angelward's psychiatric wing. Her first name is of minor importance, her greatest achievement in life will be the day she gets out of here, and she has no friends (that haven't already left her), family (that haven't already disowned her), or anything with sentimental value. Her mailbox has been empty for a year and half except for taxes and bills and junk mail proclaiming Looking for love?!, which she promptly burns on her kitchen stove, along with the rest of the dinner she never bothered to learn how to cook.
If you were to ask her why, she might spit back a response that went something like, "I'm too busy wanting to help people who need it." But she probability wouldn't say anything, because she's too tired to listen to half of what you said.
And she sorely regrets she ever had childhood dreams, adolescent stupidity, and a college degree.