Ghostwriter
One very late night, or very early in the morning, Sakura got out of bed.
She hadn't been able to fall (comfortably) asleep for a while now. Persistent and familiar bouts of uneasiness jerked her awake every hour. Needless to say–as Sakura slipped on her slippers with a half-hearted yawn–this is far from healthy.
Sporting panda eyes and chaotic hair, Sakura made her way to the kitchen. She sat down on a chair lethargically (it's easier to fall asleep on a full stomach–though it may add to your thighs), waiting for the water to boil. She scanned her rather bleak surroundings, her dry eyes red and stinging.
Sakura brushed both of her hands through her hair and let them fall around her neck–supple fingers entwined at the nape. She caressed her neck gradually, almost a subconscious movement, hoping it will ease the straining tension. It did not.
Sakura drowsily registered that moment of sleepiness where everything around her are so eerily still and surreal… it appears as if everything was strategically placed (the pack of ramen, the phone on the wall, the yellow chair that wasn't properly pushed in, the water dripping from the tap rhythmically, etc). Random thoughts and contemplations were transitory… they come and go like falling (dancing) leaves. Sakura allowed herself to mellow in the flow.
The strain sank its teeth deeper around her neck (did she sleep on it funny?) and Sakura let loose a small groan. She released a little bit of her chakra and strengthened her massage. Her rough hands (befitting a skillful medic-nin) worked from the back to the front of her taut neck and–
She felt herself retracing someone else's touch.
No, not that, please… anything but that…
Emotional ordeal at four in the morning, really? Has she sank to a new, pathetic low?
Sakura's hands lay still and rigid around her neck and… no–technically (evidently) one cannot physically choke oneself… at least not successfully. Since Haruno Sakura is girl, and girls cry… yes, in the rugged and stark world of men, girls cry. Girls have a tendency to do that, last time Sakura checked. Actually, Sakura tends to do that. So she did.
Her freshly boiled tears moisturized her dry eyes. Her vision was damp and hazy, Sakura blinked once, twice, and everything around her sharpened and quickly melted into wet blurs again. What's the use? She closed her eyes and her tears cascaded down her rosy cheeks relentlessly.
She liked to think they are pretty waterfalls, but–
Was it wrong to have thoroughly enjoyed that moment of sheer dread and agony and fear and nostalgia and what else? Sakura underwent a thunderbolt of sentiments that struck her into a dead stupor; a concoction of sentiments so eerie and cruel she couldn't catch her breath even when Naruto swept her away so unexpectedly.
Since Haruno Sakura is a run-of-the-mill, second-class at best kunoichi, she miserably failed at what she set out to do. An intellectual once upon a time… now she foundered to read between the lines. Idiot! Of course he changed! What did you expect? Look at the man you swore to forever love… cross your heart to keep him there… he went apeshit and is now a certified psychopath beyond repair.
Sakura rubbed her eyes frantically, choking on her sobs all the while… Goddamn you tears that never seem to quit! Her lashes were damp, and her eyes moist.
Nice. It felt nice. Needless to say, it was nice when his rough hands seized her small neck with unsurprising strength and great chakra; it was nice when he lifted her up like a paper doll; nice when he tightened his clench–
(she could not breathe, she was struggling for breath… an unconscious reflex).
For one blood-curdling second, Sakura knew she was going to die. Right then and there in his unyielding death grip. Now, wouldn't that be something… wouldn't that conjure a weak laugh or garner a gasp?
Dying in anyone's hands but his? His hands she tried to stealthily grab while walking home from D-ranked missions every evening, his hands she admired for its swift, dexterous control and use of dense shurikens, his hands she daydreamed about caressing her cheeks?
The possibilities of 'what-if's were the foundation of her love. Whatever he was not (and perhaps never will be), Sakura envisioned who he can be, or might be in the future–
And now, ashamed of herself, him, and her seemingly undying love for him (unhealthy doesn't even begin to cover it), she tightened her clutch of her neck and desperately wanted to feel what he felt.
Because his rough hands wrapped around your throat was intimate.
It felt intimate to have him kill you in cold blood.
Because Sakura was only a girl–a girl who was foolishly and naively 'in love', she succumbed to her twisted priority that all this is worth pondering over. To reminisce. At four in the morning when the sun didn't bother to show its face.
Sasuke could have killed me.
He wanted to kill me…
He… he should have killed me.
Because Sakura is Sakura and she was sick but so accustomed to nightly girl blues, she continued to shed her incessant tears as the boiling water bubbled violently, forgotten.
fin