I don't understand.
No not the problem on the blackboard. Not the droning of the professor as his buzzing lecture fades to the background becoming a low lull in my ears. No bastard, I am not a moron. I am your moron, your personal idiot.
You would laugh-
No you wouldn't laugh, being the typical icy bastard you are you wouldn't even crack a smile. Those beautiful sculpted lips would grace me with a smirk, your smirk. Whereas the left corner of your lips -never the right, always the odd bastard aren't you?- would tilt upwards. It is a condescending look, never failing to tell one, tell me, how absolutely inferior I am to you. You would smirk, and I would know.
Yes, I am your moron. Though you don't know it, I watch you. Thinking on it I probably know your face –soperfect- better than your own mother, better than yourself. I know you Uchiha Sasuke. I know your smile, your fake, brittle smile. Yet it is the most inspiring thing I've seen. Why is that?
Why is it, that your commercial white teeth and utterly forced movement of lips captivate me as like flies to light? Perhaps it is because you refuse to allow yourself to feel any sense of alleviation from the guilt of being the sole survivor of a massacre. Yes, I know. I made it a point to hack into school files, gather newspaper clippings, and even visit the murderer in prison. I wonder would it sicken you if you knew that I thanked him, thanked him for sending me a dark angel.
I watch as you eat. Your patterns have changed again, and of course they would, it is their anniversary after all. You lift up a tomato, the red vegetable that was blessed enough to obtain such a precious jewel as your affection. Easy on the pepper, heavy on the salt, you always did like things salty. Like your cake on your seventh birthday when your mother accidentally replaced the sugar with salt; you couldn't eat enough of it. Itachi told me.
You sit with them as you eat. I feel sick to my stomach seeing their presence tainting your beautifully blackened soul. They are not fit to even breathe in your direction; I'd drown them for trying. Yet you do not grace them with your thoughts, this pleases me. You get up to leave, and I get up to follow.
I follow you to their graves. Your eyes are dead. They are expressionless, lovely and onyx; two crystalline jewels that are fathomless, the reflection hidden, drawing me in as like a fatal snare. I give a smile.
You stare at the gravestones, your eyes, I know already, rest on them: they who gave you life. Wetness pools in your eyes, yet I know your to stubborn of a bastard to admit it, they are tears. You are shivering, Sakura told you to bring a coat. Stupid bastard.
I watch you shake, the cold cutting through your flimsy shirt as daggers. Your beautiful porcelien skin is turning a delightful pink in the cold winter evening. I am fascinated with your skin. It is carved from the finest of marble, a shade of white that none had ever reached before; it gives you an ethereal glow, like an angel. Yet you are no ordinary angel, for your innocence is nonexistent your taint of hellfire too pure to fathom, its aroma positively enthralling. My dark angel.
I hand you my coat, and you know.
Just a little something to let you know I am not dead. RL is bothersome and of course is always put first. Don't know exactly what produced this drabble, it is pretty dark isn't it... Hm. Well it was written to Staind's "Outside" so that is probably why. Anyone who can decipher this and actually make any correlation review and I will personally hand you a digital cookie (Via PM Of Course!)
Anyways I'm going to try to start working on chapter five tomorrow, no promises though.