Goodbye
Summary: [Goodbye Sasori, because arteries and heart are merely longer ways to say art… and I believe you have those, don't you?] One-shot, no pairings.
I don't own Naruto. It's not brutal enough for me.
A.N: Somewhat related to my other story "Hello", where Sasori kills Deidara, but not.
Though, in the end, they are both crazy sons of bitches.
But that's what awesome and talented ninjas always are; crazy sons of bitches.
I like the suddenness of my art; the rush of the beauty…
I can make anything, anytime, anywhere—just give me some clay, and I'll make the most beautiful damn thing you've ever seen. I especially love it when the hearts of my spectators gush blood, their arteries flying throughout the battlefield—it's art because of the hearts and the arteries. It's not barbaric, not sadistic; it's simply an appreciation for what is hidden in plain sight. It's a wonder why it is not admired in the artistic society, though 'art' now consists of blobs and zig-zags—and no, these blobs are not the blood splattered on the wall—now that's art, un.
You see, Sasori? That's why I have to kill you. You have no tolerance for my art, or any other, and so your wooden chest is now splinters flying in the battlefield, ready to kill any unwary spectator. Your Akatsuki cloak is barely hanging on by a few threads of swirling crimson clouds and pitch-black cloth, rivulets of scarlet dripping off you.
I know I'm grinning by the reflection in your glass eyes. I'm gonna make you a piece of art, don't you see? I'm gonna tear your arms out in a raging inferno, gonna sear your legs off in explosions, slowly ripping the few arteries you have from your body—because arteries, they are art, un. Goodbye Sasori, you are going to be art.
Your eyes are widened, but you aren't terrified, you can't be afraid—you, after all, are the great and grand Sasori of the Red Sands—the trembling in your body is shock, the gears rasping in your useless chest, anxiety. Danna, I'm doing you and I a favor. You who will forever be remembered beautiful as you collapse outwards, red outlined by the harsh silver in the moon. I… the artist behind this gorgeous sight. Stars shining in your shattered corpse.
In simply remembering this moment, it will be glorified. Every grisly detail will become so much more divine in memory. The human mind tends to grasp their memories and paint them onto a pedestal that can never really be undone. The more we forget the situation, the more wondrous it really becomes…!
My art is like fine wine! As the bloody sands of time sift downwards, it only gets better, un!
Haha…hah. But you don't seem to understand me, do you, danna? Your chakra winding around your limbs, like spider webs around a fly. Blood dripping down onto the ground, contrasting wonderfully against the hues of the mercury-stained grass. You desperately cupping the red, trying to keep it from slipping through your fingers, like you try to stop the sand in an hourglass. Why can't you understand…?
Is it because I'm not art-i-culat-ing the words well enough?
Danna! Trying, desperate, desperate, desperate, to summon your shattered remains back to yourself. Soaked in red and staken through into the ground, spider spindle quivering as you try to pull it back to you. Your shaking eyes defiant, and though you are only standing because of a few cindered melting femurs, iron cooling onto the ground… molten, as bright as the sun and so beautiful it almost makes my last eye blind…you still look down at me, at my art. You are the type of person who could look down on the stars and make them sink to the depths of hell. Oh well. You'll have company there, I suppose.
One moment, a lifetime. It begins, it flourishes, it decays. The shorter the span, the more it is appreciated. Everything is so much lovelier when it's doomed. It stands out so much more vibrantly, the shorter the beauty lasts. A memory that lives until its owner dies taking it with it.
My masterpiece.
That's what you will ultimately end up being, you know, un? I'll probably forget the look on your face. But I'll always remember the way your heart, in it's glass capsule, starts to pulse faster, shorter breaths, sending blood to your wounds and through your fingers and onto the ground.
'Don't stop beating,' I say to it.
The show isn't over until the puppet has been thrown away after serving its purpose...the fat lady singing until lungs fail, and the audience left wondering why she stopped. Surely though, it doesn't really matter to me; the sounds of your screaming is so much more aesthetically pleasing to my ears, spiders crawling up your iron bones and clutching to them, though you are desperately shaking your limbs, swatting at them with a hand, before running. Running. Sasori of the Red Sands running.
You can run. You can hide.
But I have your legs.
I prove so, doesn't take a twitch of any muscle in my body, and I release the chakra stabilizing the chemicals inside the clay arachnids. Iron splitting, shattering like molten glass, burning across my cheek as the shards flee from their dying master. Can't feel the wounds. Heat probably killed the nerves. Don't care. The sight of you, once so proud, attempting to inch away with the feeble hand that was not caught in the explosion. Wooded digits, made of the purest cherry blossom tress, splintering as you try to get a grip onto a boulder with your charred limb. Stop, as my footsteps approach, and struggle to push yourself up. Look at me, with one eye covered by stringy crimson charred yarn, the other fully revealed in it's true spherical form, a burn revealing the socket that the glass replacement makes its throne, the wood a blackened ash slipping down the remainder of your features and whatever remaining ligaments and muscles melting under the scorching caress of the heat. Not even above my knees, and still managing to make those diamond stars collapse.
Hey, Danna.
Did you know?
Tonight… I will make a masterpiece.
The ground crawls as arachnids skid across it, the moon blotted out by the wings of suicidal doves dive-bombing towards the earth. The sound of your heart screaming is sounding so pleasing to my ears.
This will be remembered… forever. Time will not erode this away, unlike your own pieces – the air, water, and filth corroding your piece, the colors fading away from their former glory, people gazing at their loveliness and then moving on with their lives and their appreciation of the art slowly crumbling into dust as their memory gets infected with a disease calls time eats away the flesh of their admiration. As the time moves on pass my masterpiece, the hues only become more vibrant, lasting for a few seconds before collapses outwards, destroying itself before anything gets that chance the short span standing our forever in memory.
The spiders climb over you, and do not linger. Their scratchy, hair-covered legs – for I am nothing if not detailed oriented – slightly chip off the wood on your face with every smooth step. The birds, outlined harshly by the moon, lunge towards the earth but fly in arcs around you, but do not remotely make any inclination to fly towards yourself. Both swarm to me, the spiders crawling up my legs and then swiftly covering the outside of my Akatsuki cloak until the heavily detailed clay glows in Artemis' rays, surrounding myself like armor. The doves fly around me in a tight circle, one fluttering down to my shoulder where it nuzzles my cheek, seemingly oblivious to the waves of spiders that continue to crawls upwards, past my neck, until they cover my mouth, nose, biological eye...
You are surprised.
My mechanical eye glimpses you slowly come to a realization of the event to come, your normally blank face falling to an enraged grimace that fractures the charred ash on your face and deepens the bloodless wounds – the only remainder of your humanity – and your astonished eyes recovering from shock, brows beginning to descend in anger –
a spider crawling over the camera implanted in my head.
My world descends into the shadows one final time…
We will be our own masterpieces.
Goodbye.
From the twisted mind of theinsane, whom wishes for reviews.