Totally not my usual writing style...the way it's done is very Chuck Palahniuk inspired, but whatever. Enjoy...Happy Holidays (to be politically correct and stuff), though this is anything but fluff.
Scar Tissue
So you wake up in some hospital.
You don't know where, or why, but your head is pounding and all around you is that sterile hospital smell and everything is that pristine hospital white—the fluorescent light in the ceiling is buzzing in that hollow, echoing way that tells you the floor is cheap linoleum tile and you're pretty much the only thing in the room besides the bed you're on and the standard visitor's chair that you know no one will be sitting in.
You look out the window and it's nighttime, and that's all you can see is that velvety black abyss because you're laying down and obviously on a floor above ground level judging by the lone branch waving at you from the top of some tree you can't see.
You sit up in your bed and fuckshit your head hurts, it's such a terrible ache that you can't even piece together a coherent plan of action in your mind. You try to remember, try to force yourself to remember how you got here, why you're here, when you got here. You close your eyes, try to block out the ache in your head but you can't, and you can't remember, and that pisses you off more than the headache.
The last time you woke up in a hospital bed and couldn't remember anything before it, your brother had just murdered your whole family. You wonder, vaguely, if this is a dream. But then you realize that you're being stupid because your head hurts too badly for this to be just a memory.
And then your sharp ears—they have never before failed you like this, and you curse yourself for thinking so much—pick up a sound:
A soft breath. A slight shift in position from your left, so quiet no one else would have picked it up but you know that someone is there and so you spin your head to the side, eyes red and wild and bright in the darkness and see—
Sakura.
Older. Slimmer and taller (though not by much), but still, it's Sakura, and it takes you much longer than it should to figure out that this is actually Sakura and that this means you're in Konoha, where you most certainly weren't before…whatever happened before.
She is sleeping in that standard visitor's chair, and you curse yourself again for just writing it off without first checking but your head is pounding and fuck, your arm feels ready to fall off. And then you curse yourself again for not remembering how and why and when you got here and who fucking brought you here and—
Her brow furrows. Unconsciously, you force your eyes to melt back into their cool onyx shade, though for what purpose you cannot imagine. To avoid frightening her away? Certainly not. She is weak, has always been weak, and is not worth the effort. You manage, somehow, to convince yourself that you do this because it is a waste of chakra and your head hurts too much to use it, though you've used your bloodline limit in much harsher conditions than this, so you really—
Her eyes open. They are the very same soft green they have always been, still so wide and innocent but much sharper than before, much more beautiful, much more harsh. They almost glow in the darkness, they are so bright, and you wonder why as soon as she looks at you with those wide eyes your thoughts are taken from your mind, the words are stolen from your lips, all noise is taken from the air around you and all that's left is her and her eyes and her face and her hair, looking at you.
She has always looked at you like this, in this breathtaking manner, ever since that day so long ago when she looked up at you from that crater in the ground that you had created.
Her lips part, pale pink and thin but shaped perfectly, and you wait for the tears, those perfect drops of shimmering crystal, to drop from her wide green eyes, but they don't. She just stares at you, as if calculating her next move, and you wonder at her sudden beauty but keep your face blank, impassive and cold, never letting her know, never letting her guess.
It feels like years have passed before you finally let go, relent, stare at the wall instead of her face because you don't know how to handle her, have never known how to handle her. You can feel her green eyes on your face but you still refuse to look which is why it is such a surprise when you suddenly find her lips on yours.
It's quick and chaste but even though she pulls away she remains close to your face and close to your heart, wherever the hell that is, though you will never admit this. And then she speaks. Whispers, no more than a breath onto your lips.
I love you.
You want to tell her that you have loved her in your own twisted way since the day she tried to stop you from leaving even if you didn't realize it, that you have always loved her and kept her away to save her, protect her, keep her untainted. But you can see, now, in her eyes, that in your sick form of protection you have only hurt her, harmed her, tainted her.
Which makes it okay when you suddenly find yourself kissing her, your hands in her hair and hers on your shoulders. You thank her for everything she has done because you have always been better with actions than words and you can tell from the tears now running down her face and the way she tightens her hold on your arms that she understands, has always understood, has always known.
And then you realize that she has always been, somewhere in that bent up piece of scar tissue you call a heart, your reason to come home.
Hope this will tide you over until I get my lazy ass working on Not the Same. Reviews are love. SEND ME SOME LOVIN'.
Peace,
Dani