Ersatz
By Insomniac Owl
-
It was a hobby, in the beginning, just something to do on rainy days, or when he got bored. He bought a cheap camera, thinking he'd take a few pictures and eventually get rid of it, but over the next few months he found it taking up more and more of his time, found himself devoting more of his day (and more of himself) to it until it stopped being a hobby at all.
At the moment, Sasuke was sitting on the living room floor, staring out the window. It was cold out, one of those winter days that liked to slip in near the end of fall, when it should have been rather warm. It was a bad day for pictures. But there it came, the way it often did when he wasn't doing much; a desire, a need to create. It picked him up off the carpet, moved him down the hall to the basement where he kept his photographs and equipment. Two steps, hit the lights, twenty-three more, then two, maybe three steps to the counter, where he'd left a pile of photos the night before.
He carried them back up to the living room, dropping them on the carpet near the window. Someone (probably his foster-father) had left a roll of tape out on the kitchen counter, and he moved this to the window as well. And then, carefully, he began sticking photographs to the glass, handling each one like a priceless work of art.
Birds, wet sidewalks and trees. The sky, a deep, painful blue. Leaning back, they looked almost... holy.
He ran his fingers along their edges, eyes watchful for mistakes – but there was nothing; only the subject and the background, bright and painfully real against all that grey.
x
When Kakashi came home that night, he found Sasuke asleep on the couch with the lights off, a half-eaten plate of spaghetti on the floor beside him. He quietly cleaned up the food, and was about to go to the hall closet to find a blanket when he saw the photographs.
He paused, caught a little off guard, then turned and walked into the hall.
He'd been down to the basement only once since Sasuke moved in, but he hadn't stayed long. It was a little breathtaking to see those photos tacked to the walls, but the atmosphere was dark, and it felt, somehow, as though he'd been cut off from the rest of the world, Sasuke's photographs his only links back. They were only pictures, of course, just still frames of innocent things like umbrellas and playground slides. It was only a room. But it made him uneasy….
He'd confronted Sasuke later that day, over re-heated pasta and vegetables. The back doors were open to the summer air, and Kakashi remembered Sasuke making a comment about it. He didn't remember what was said, but he recalled laughing, his mouth half-hidden behind his cup. Then his expression sobered.
"You know, Sasuke I – I'm kind of worried about you."
"Huh?" Sasuke paused with his fork in his mouth, his eyebrows raised.
"I mean... don't take this the wrong way or anything, but you're always down in the basement. I hardly see you anymore, and even when I do, you're.... It's not the same. You're not the same."
A light breeze stirred the curtains. Sasuke got up and went to the sink and began, more carefully than was necessary, to rinse his plate.
"I can take care of myself, you know."
"Yeah… I know."
Sasuke left his plate in the sink, bare feet padding softly against the tiles on his way out. Kakashi watched him leave, struggling to repress the anxiety stuck somewhere between heart and throat – just one more thing to fade uneasily into the background, unanswered, un-dealt-with (all those repressed worries...). It was a form of self defense, he knew; a mental block, put up to protect the mind from things too painful to contemplate. But it was only mental, and though the mind was a powerful thing, those blocks would inevitably crumble, allowing the reality he'd been hiding for so long to come spilling out.
(All those colours....)
His fingers pushed once into his scalp, shoving those memories into the back of his consciousness. It was a problem, yes, he knew that, but one he would deal with later. Later.
He found a blanket, then returned to the living room. He walked quietly, so as not to wake Sasuke, and lay the blanket over him. It made him feel a bit like a father, taking care of Sasuke like this; he didn't do it often enough, and though he felt guilty about it, whenever he tried Sasuke pushed him away. Though it was only natural, he supposed….
He'd taken Sasuke in nearly five years ago, as a favour to the boy's deceased parents. Sasuke had a brother, but he'd disappeared a while back. The rumors went that he'd gotten involved in a gang; he'd murdered someone, or he'd been murdered; he'd stolen his parent's insurance money and run to Saskatchewan. No one knew anything for certain, except that he was gone. And that Sasuke – then twelve – had been left alone.
So Kakashi had taken him in, given him food, a bed, a helping hand when he needed it.
It was pleasant, really, to think of himself as a saviour.
Suddenly ill, he went to sit on the edge of his bed, and waited for it to pass. Sasuke, it seemed, had settled back to sleep, and after a while Kakashi lay down as well, one arm thrown over his face to ward off dreams.
x
Sasuke was done.
He laid the pictures aside, then wiped his hands on his jeans. His hair hung limp and slightly damp around his face (he'd taken a shower that morning, and it still hadn't dried completely), and he neatened it a little with his fingers. It would only worry Kakashi more, he knew, if he came out looking as though he'd fallen asleep down here – though, sometimes he really did want to. It was dark a lot of the time and the heater didn't always work, but this basement, and the photos in it, brought a special sort of calm Sasuke found nowhere else. It was not so hard to imagine spending the night here, stretched out on the floor with a few blankets and a pillow, staring up at the photos tacked to the ceiling like stars....
He'd tried to stop few times, to lay the camera aside and take a break. But he always came back. He never rushed back, however; he was like an alcoholic who, when presented with drink, stowed it away in a cupboard until could get at it slowly, a glass at a time until he was completely smashed. But he always came back. Immolation was what he wanted, if only for a while. To lose himself, to forget his name, to exist without boundaries.
He got to his feet, stifling a yawn as he put away his things, then started up the stairs. Twenty-three, hit the lights, two more. He came out into the hallway, blinking and stupid with light, and made his way to the kitchen with a hand to the wall (because it felt like he might fall over, then, just lose his balance and crash to the ground).
Kakashi was in the kitchen as usual, making a lunch of sandwiches and hot tea. He looked up when Sasuke entered, but then he stopped, his mouth coming open a little.
"Sasuke," he said, voice soft with concern, "are you alright?"
Light-dazzled, still blinking, Sasuke looked up.
"What?"
He looked a mess, really, standing there with his shirt half-buttoned and his hair undone, dark circles hanging under his eyes. He didn't realize it, but he was swaying a little too, one hand reaching (it seemed to Kakashi) for balance, because he couldn't quite stand on his own. The feeling passed once his eyes adjusted to the light, but he kept his hand up, and that was how Kakashi saw him: a sick, exhausted boy who might collapse at any moment.
"What?" repeated Sasuke.
"You look terrible…."
"Don't worry about it," Sasuke mumbled. "I'm just a little tired." He picked up a sandwich, and ate it as he stared out the window.
"I was thinking we could go to that fair later," Kakashi said then, wiping down the cutting board with a wet sponge. His voice was purposely casual. "You know, the one with all the art? There was a brochure in the supermarket that I saw, and it looked really cool. Day on the Street, I think it's called. Or... I don't know, something Street. They have a bunch of artists and writers that come out and read aloud, or present or whatever. There's supposed to be a lot of conceptual stuff this year. Even a photo gallery, I think." He turned to Sasuke (not hopefully, not at all), but the boy didn't look up.
"What do you think? Sasuke?"
"Huh? Oh sorry, what?"
Kakashi refused the urge to sigh. "Nothing," he said quietly. "It's not important." He stopped then, wanting to say something else – but he couldn't find the words.
His hands trembled.
x
It was a Sunday, Kakashi remembered, when everything finally broke.
He'd been sitting in the kitchen, letting his mind wander as he stared out the window. It would rain later that day – he remembered having seen a weather report earlier that morning, and thinking that he wouldn't be able to walk to the grocery store the way he'd been planning. He would have to take the car, and maybe he could convince Sasuke to come with him?
He'd gone to find him, but the basement was empty; the lights were off, and his footsteps echoed on the stairs. Puzzled, he went upstairs to Sasuke's bedroom – and stopped with the door half open. Bed, desk, chair. Same as always. He'd seen it many times before, but it seemed different now, in some subtle but essential (and shocking) way (– it seemed like no one lived there.) Everything was too neat – even for Sasuke. It felt like it had been months since Sasuke's body touched those sheets, since his fingers touched the dresser, the windowsill, the pictures lined up on his nightstand like graves.
(You can spend all your life in one house and never live in it.)
Standing in the doorway, Kakashi felt himself beginning to panic. He searched the room, then rushed down to the basement again, thinking wildly that Sasuke was hiding or that he'd fallen asleep – anything to convince himself Sasuke was still there, that he hadn't disappeared. But even with the lights, on all he saw were empty tables, empty grey, concrete floors; even the cupboards were bare.
When Kakashi saw that, he actually tasted bile in the back of his throat.
(Those bare cupboards....)
Every photo was gone.
Suddenly ill, he clutched at the doorframe, full of a peculiar emptiness that cleared his head, made his body weak. The lights were too bright; compared to the dark hallway the basement was oddly surreal, like stepping into a dream (a nightmare). The world swung wildly.
No no no no no....
His fingers in his hair; teeth biting at lips.
It was difficult to believe Sasuke was actually gone, but the evidence was irrefutable, and besides that there was a feeling in Kakashi's stomach, a sick intuition that whispered, meekly, He's never coming back. You know that, don't you? He felt the desire to purge, and was disgusted at himself for it. It was as though all the tears he wanted to cry had backed up somewhere, clogging up his throat, or his stomach, or his heart....
"Sasuke…."
And when he could stand again, Kakashi stumbled upstairs for the car keys. He drove around the neighborhood a few times and, coming up empty, headed farther out. Main Street. The grocery store. Sasuke's favourite restaurant, a little Italian place just across the street from the high school. Every location turned up nothing, and he found himself growing tired, every exhausted lead weighing on his heart like a list of sins.
(You've failed him. You know that, don't you? Some guardian you are… some fucking saviour!)
He returned home after a good hour and a half of driving, exhausted and depressed. He didn't want to do anything but curl up in his bed and have a good cry – something that had eluded him since the initial shock of Sasuke's disappearance, and which he felt, stupidly but not without reason, might make him feel better. He curled up on his bed, but tears were not forthcoming. He managed a few dry sobs, a few tears, but not the body-wracking sobs he had anticipated, the kind of tears that come without conscious control, the way you see in movies. They seemed forced, somehow. Sincere, yes, but forced, as though he wanted it only because he thought tears would relieve the pain. (If he cried enough, maybe he would be able to forget, and maybe losing Sasuke wouldn't feel so bad?)
He fell asleep eventually, his pillow held in both arms, tear tracks running sideways across his face.
x
Sasuke never came back.
Kakashi called the police and told them what had happened; they called up a search team and put up posters, but of course there were no leads. Sasuke had not been abducted. He had gathered his things and left – or else he'd simply disappeared, lost in those photos he loved more than the world itself.
(If he were honest, Kakashi would admit he found that a better option. Better, anyway, than imagining him lost or dead.)
It was several weeks later, when the guilt and pain of it all had begun to fade, that he found the photographs. Stuffed away in the corner of Sasuke's nightstand, it was obvious he hadn't wanted them found – at least, not right away.
A white cloth was wrapped around them, and when Kakashi pulled it away his legs gave out, body sinking back onto Sasuke's bed. Sasuke's face stared up at him from the neat rectangle of a photograph – one of those do-it-yourself jobs, the length of his arm showing where he'd reached up to hold the camera. It was obvious he'd just been messing around when he took it; there was none of that carefully constructed art in it that Sasuke was so fond of – but there was so much Sasuke in that smile, in those raised eyebrows and mocking stare.
The guilt came rushing back then, without warning, and he let the pictures fall to the floor with a hoarse sob, unable to stand it. As they slid over one another, he caught a glimpse of his own face, and more of Sasuke's – at the park, on their couch, all smiles. (They were smiling....)
Two words had been written on the back of the first photo, escaping Kakashi's notice the first time. Now, as it lay at his feet, he saw them and bent to retrieve it.
I'm sorry – in Sasuke's hand.
It was meant for him, of course.
For a long time after that, he sat on Sasuke's bed with his face in his hands, breathing and trying to keep the tears in. There was no second collapse, but a small, wry smile crept over Kakashi's lips. There were no tears, no weakness, no fit of grief, but a small laugh escaped him, as did a whispered, "Oh Sasuke...."
I'm sorry.
fini