Remembrance
The Sin of Love
It's been a few days now. The thoughts were beginning to seep through his mental defences. They were coming back to him, faster and more often. It truly is his worst nightmare. It's a nightmare that he can't run from, because it's his entire existence.
The memories are cumbersome, so he abandoned the memory. The memories held him back from his greater power. They still hold him back from greater power.
It is a crisp, clear night from his perch atop the Hokage statues. His dark eyes skim the expanse of Konoha, and he thinks of the great fondness that he still feels for the place. It surprises him that even after the blood and sin he still has a comfort in the village that he longer has any present connection with. Even his beloved brother had left, and that somewhat saddens him, though he always planned for his brother to leave.
Slowly, a quiet breeze stirs. It drifts towards him tantalisingly slow. His gaze flickers down to it for a moment, before they return to Konoha. Perhaps it is the wind, or the distant but returning memories, or even simply the quiet calmness of the night, but he feels something in the air. He feels a life that he hasn't felt in so long, but it's no longer gentle and kind. He can't sense any of the kindness that he once knew, and although he expected it, it still tears his heart asunder.
"Gomen," he murmurs to the wind, glancing to the diamante sky.
He doesn't know where the words are coming from. He doesn't know why he's spoken in his isolation. He doesn't know why he's shattered the pretence that he relies so heavily upon at times. More and more often he's found himself in need of the pretence. It troubles him deeply, the growing necessity of such burdensome lies. Somehow guilt has sunk through his defences that had never weakened, or shown any signs of weakening, before.
"It…" he begins, once more unsure of why he breaks the silence. "It has been a long time."
The silence is what he relies so heavily upon. The silence is what he now finds himself forced to break for the sake of something stirring inside of him. Perhaps it is his sanity that lies on the brink of oblivion. It most certainly is something that seems to define him, but the blood also defines him. He cannot escape the blood, and so, he glances down at his hands. The blood flows through him like a poisonous sickness; an ailment that will forever be untreatable.
He certainly cannot treat it. If he tries then his brother will lose his place in fate. If he treats it then he will lose his place, and his masterfully crafted mask. He sighs wearily; the burden of keeping fate in its place weighs heavily upon his shoulders. It was never something that he ever found himself caring for before. Yet so many moments and feelings have changed lately.
One feeling hasn't changed. He emits a low, bitter sound, perhaps a laugh, perhaps a wail. He suddenly knows what has happened over the past days, months, or even years. The days all seem the same, but now he knows that they aren't. Gradually that one feeling has grown, expanding until it now consumes his heart. It is the one symbolic feeling that proves to him that he has done was right. Guilt.
Years have passed by, and he had begun to bury the memories. The task sounds simple enough, but he knew, as he has always known, that such forgetfulness is impossible. To forget what had happened would be the greatest crime against love that would ever exist. He knows because it consumes him, and he would not be human without it. He still remembers that day so clearly;
He walks, the katana trailing blood along the ground. The smear has travelled for a while by now. He has killed with his hands instead, aiming for the chakra points of his victims. Yes, victims, because enemies was never a word that he could use against them. Most of them even refused to raise a weapon in their own defence. They were seemingly accepting of what was to happen.
It breaks his heart, or rather, what is left of it.
He steps up onto the pathway. Now he removes the sword from the ground. He angles it to avoid any more droplets from falling. Surely his brother will have suffered enough torment without seeing such a sinful trail? He knows that his brother will not have travelled to this one place in the way that he has. His brother will never see the trail, and that gives him hope, but he soon casts it aside. Hope is something that he cannot allow himself to feel; just as he refuses to accept anyone's forgiveness. He is beyond redemption, and beyond that which any mortal can liberate.
The door slides open and he enters cautiously. His father scowls at his late arrival from the corner of his eyes. His father has never been particularly cruel, but he has never been too lenient as to encourage laziness. He refuses to meet the worried eyes of the only other person in the room. With those eyes on him his feet feel heavy.
His steps falter and come to an unstable stop. He stands directly behind both of them. It is the only way; he knows that, but he lets doubt enter his mind. He thinks of the possibility that he was lied to. It sounds plausible to his desperate ears. He glances down at the one who he couldn't look at before. Her eyes are slowly returning to what is before her. She is the reason for his desperation; his mother. However he cannot turn from his path.
Hatred burns within him for a moment. He wishes he had allowed his beloved brother to perish. He wishes that he has, instead, saved his mother. She was a saviour that has passed through life unnoticed. She deserves better than what life has given her. She deserves to stay alive.
He raises the katana. As he strikes his father, blood splatters across the floor. It is the cry that only the dying can elicit echoes throughout the room. His father begins to slump, but his mother wraps her arms around him, holding him upright. He cannot strike again, not as she stares at it. There is no horror as he had expected from her, she simply asks with her eyes if he's of the choice he's made. It breaks his heart, but he strikes once more.
His head lies in his hands. He cannot erase the blood from his mind. He can see it coating his hands whenever they are in the edges of his vision. The blood will always be there, he knows. He doesn't try to fight with fate on such a matter. He only wishes, futilely, that he had saved someone else. Or that he had saved them both.
Now he knows, with the coming of the dawn which is soon to caress the village in its gaze. He knows which day it is, and why the memories have returned. His life has lead him to this point, and he will continue with his life. He simply has to survive the pain of what now consumes him. It will only gather strength and momentum throughout his life, but he's sure that he can continue to live. He can endure it, and that is the beginning of his punishment.
"Watashi wa, gomen'nasai okāsandesu,"* he whispers to the remainder of the night.
For even if you despise me; I will always love you.
Author's Note: I decided on Mother's Day that I would write this. It sounds so very fictional, but I have buried my own heart in these words. I hope that you, who I have written this for, is still of this world. I would die if I could never tell you goodbye. I am sorry to have burdened you unfairly.
*I looked this up on Google. I think that it's somewhat correct. Watashi wa = I (or something like that) Gomen'nasai = sorry. Okāsandesu = mother (I'm not sure if it's meant to be one word, but, as far as I know, okāsan is mother).