Wednesday,11 of August, 1999

He dragged himself along the walls of the Hyuuga mansion, stealing breaths, and knocking paintings and cobwebs askew, leaving marks on antiques. His clumsiness was not intended, but he staggered as if he were drunk, drunk-dizzy with pain and the liquid falling into his mouth. His throat closed every time he felt that taste of iron-That taste, that taste ohmygod that taste. The taste that was all too familiar was congealing on his tongue, and mixing with his saliva. It was his own blood, a reminder of his own persistent mortality dripping down his forehead, down his face, and into his mouth, forced open with need for air.

He had forgotten how he had loved the taste of blood more than his kin, and his body quivered with distaste and disgust, yet hungered for more, having been starved for so long.

He had forgotten what the taste of blood did to him. He'd had other things, important things, things that had distracted him. They had been erased now, and only his bloodlust remained.

Tears rolled down his cheek, mixing with the blood from his forehead.

His leg hung limp behind him, and he limped with the aid of the walls, his hands covered in dust and blood. Hers or his? His head ached, and he could feel the torn pieces of skin, skin that flapped as he walked and places on his forehead that ought to be covered with skin, but were now exposed and ached. Blood flowed over his left eye, and lumps began to clot in his eyebrows and lashes. He staggered onwards, desperate to reach her haven, his leg bleeding too, and useless. He looked backwards, and noted that a trail of blood from his leg was leaving a trail on the marble floors. That blood was his.

He almost fell, but caught himself, telling himself he only had a few more steps to go. How many times had he stalked these halls with elegance in his brief employment here? He came finally to that wooden door, and with the last ounce of strength, he pushed against it.

With desperate breath he fell through the doorway of the sitting room, the enormous heat of the room cumulating in his stomach. He fell onto the floor, and spat, retching onto her threshold, his empty stomach only allowing the passage of foul smelling but clear liquids to drench onto the patterned carpet. He looked up to that chair, his head covered in blood that matched his hair, and his leg twisted at a strange angle to his body.

He attempted to look up to the room he had entered so many times, realising only now, when it mattered the least, that this was not a sitting room, but a small library. Heavy shelving covered the walls, and books were piled up on nearly every available surface, and even on the floor, their silhouettes tiny against that of the fire, huge and blazing. And of course, that chair. That huge and utterly stupid chair, which he knew held his only hope.

"I n-need your help." He wheezed to the inhabitant of the chair, his head too heavy, and dropping, falling to rest against the spittle on the carpet. His stomach acid stank and stung against his head wound, but he lacked the energy or desire to raise his head. He opened his eyes, one more time for a glimpse of his saviours resting place, that ridiculous, grandiose chair, his breath making ripples in his vomit.

His view was obscured by a small pair of feet, pale and tiny, and blue with cold even though the sitting room sweltered with heat. "A pity." Sighed his mistress's voice. "It's so hard to find a good butler nowadays."

His view faded to black.

Author's note

A more serious attempt on my account, something I've been working on, and playing with for a long while. Hinata's not going to be sweet, kind and cuddly, and Gaara isn't going to be a raging psychopath. Not yet, at least.

Is anyone interested? Is this worth continuing with?

Thank you for reading.