Title: The House
Genre: Drama
Rating: PG-13
Author's Notes: This was something I started on a whim and never actually finished. Since it's summer, I decided to take it out and finish writing it! I'm really not sure where I want to go with this; it could be a one-shot, or a short story – who knows? I suck when it comes to writing and updating though so don't expect a new upload anytime soon.
The House
By Onewingdtenshi07
They say that dreams reflect your innermost desires.
In his dreams, the house was always burning; amidst the sweltering heat, he could see the flame-soaked furniture through filmy waves, the incinerating scroll of the Uchiha crest hung beside the window. Glass lay cracked on the floor – the portrait that hung on the wall began to burn, and the flames lashed out viciously; he raised his arms to shield his face, eyes stinging from the invading smoke. The roar of the blaze deafened him as it grew infinitely; he couldn't stay any longer. Stumbling blindly through the hall, he collided against the wall.
It was then that debris from the ceiling fell across his back and sent him crashing to ground. Pain shot over his shoulders.
He couldn't breathe.
His fingers clenched into white hot fists and he squinted at the wooden floor, blurry from the sweat and tears.
The wood frame began to collapse around him as he coughed in between raspy gasps for air. His lungs burned as the searing heat ripped violently across his chest.
He couldn't breathe.
He couldn't breathe…
\.A./
The house was something that he detested – a structure abandoned long ago. What was once a beautiful home was now a dusty wreck; the rooms were cluttered and disheveled – the result of years of neglect.
He came back every few years or so to visit the graves. You can never truly erase the past, so he returned to leave and honor the memory of his family. In a way he didn't want to let go of everything. Despite all the pain and loss, he hadn't wanted to completely abandon his home - his history. All things, however, had to come to an end.
The wooden floors creaked as he stepped across them, and he placed the metal bucket in the foyer before hesitantly stepping through the halls and into his old room. This would be the last time he visited these old walls – the last time to unearth long forgotten memories, and turn them over in his mind.
He turned to the window where the sunlight streamed through, and could almost see the pale vision of his mother, wrapping a shawl around her shoulders, and turning to brush her fingers through the hairs of a sullen boy. He could feel the ache rising in his chest – the yearning to reach out; he stood there lost in his memories for a moment, until the weariness that had settled upon his shoulders became too much of a burden to bear. He spared the room one last glance before turning away and stepping out.
As he made his way around the house for the last time, he sloshed the contents of the bucket all over the house, on the furniture, on the walls and the floor. Once he reached the front door, he set the bucket down and reached into his pocket for the match.
\.A./
He stood outside, watching as the blaze flared. He watched his sweet and bitter memories burn away through the night, until dawn broke, and all that were left were ashes. Then he left.
It was three months later, when all traces of his old home was swept away that he returned with wood and a set of tools. He quickly set to work, reforming the foundation and putting together the frame. Then he raised the walls and nailed down the roof shingles. He worked until the new house was furnished and clean, and ready for its tenant to move in. And now when he dreams, the house no longer burns. The pain fades, as he steps through the front door, and breathes.