the solace in hollow lullabies
It's a hollow sensation.
Dedicated to Extra Ren.
NOTE: For those of you who've seen pan's labyrinth, or want to listen to a good angsty song while reading, search on youtube for 'Pan's labyrinth lullaby'. I was listening to it the whole time while writing this. Also, this is the sequel to 'whispers of amity', except there's no KakaRin—just sasusaku.
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i. there's a demon within him—one that he'll never be rid of
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It's a hollow sensation, what he feels, and it's ironic, oh so ironic, that all he feels is hollow, when he should be satisfied—contented from the sight of the tousled strands of ebony matted with crimson, the stream of blood cascading down the pallid, cool flesh of his cheeks, emanating from those damned wide, lifeless eyes. But he isn't. It's more annoying than "satisfying".
(everything is annoying—fucking annoying—the fact that he was betrayed by not only his mind but heart; the fact that they always have to shove their noses into his business, and that he fails to stop them from doing so; the fact that his father never accepted him; the fact that his mother lied to him to make him feel good about himself; the fact that his brother was better than him at everything; the fact that even though he hated his family, he still couldn't help but miss his father's stern voice or his mother's smile, and even the kind, sincere façade of the ghost he once called his "nii-san"—the fact that he didn't even get to kill his older brother—the fact that he couldn't get a job done—it's all so bloody annoying)
The pungent scent of chemicals and things he didn't know of, nor did he wish to—the bright, gleaming snow white of the walls—the stiff mattress and pillow beneath his head—the hushed, deceiving whispers.
("It's the Uchiha—Uchiha Sasuke-kun," They whisper in shock—it's all a façade, he thinks—everyone feigns shock and sympathy; in reality, they don't give a fuck about him—)
Nurses come and go, dressed in the cliché, blinding white dresses—check his blood pressure, check his temperature, soften his pillow, bring in the meals—
("It's procedure," they all say, and surprisingly enough, he could care less about whether it really is procedure, or if they're just a bunch of twisted, perverted freaks who still want to feel him up)
—groups of junior doctors, as well as senior doctors, gaze at him through the windowpane, noting down the meaningless mumbo-jumbo and rubbish that leaves the senior doctor's mouth, hanging on his every word and nodding eagerly, while the senior doctor just nods haughtily, pompous and prideful.
(—at the end of the day, they'll crawl back to their homes, sneer at him and how the Uchiha and the world of prominent clans are a disgrace, read fake tales of romance to their daughters, buy toys for their sons and fuck their spouses until the wife bears another child)
Their whispers echo in his ears, resounding in the library of his mind, ricocheting off the insubstantial, flimsy walls of self-protection he built around himself—those walls were waning in stiffness, but what does it matter? He was never protected, not even by himself.
(it's a sickening cycle, and the Uchiha bastard is glad, for once in his aimless life he isn't a part of it)
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ii. she's the angel who fell for him; an angel no longer
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When she sees him, for the first time since so many long-winded, desolate years—6, 7, 8, she always seems to lose count—she can't help but rush towards him and hold him. Just like the girl she once was—the girl hiding within her.
(green eyes gaze at him, shimmering from the fluorescent light emanating from the sun and pooling within acerbic, clear saline, flickering and flashing quickly from different emotions, the rapid fluttering motion of her eyelashes akin to that of a butterfly's wings—radiant green and jet black, a harmonious combination, he thinks, in a fleeting moment of light-headedness)
Her lithe arms, clothed in an airy, rich scarlet cotton long-sleeved shirt, wrap around his torso, tight and squeezing him. He feels restricted, oppressed in her hold—like a mere possession, like everything he's between meant not a thing to her, but why would it? She's just a normal girl with a regular life—the life he yearned for, the coveted life.
(it's almost as though there's a silent, subtle implication in the notion—"you'll never leave me again because you're mine, mine and mine only…"—he almost feels like a toy, a pretty looking doll at a spoilt brat's disposal, just from the mere thought; he almost glares at her—almost—but what's the bloody point? He has nowhere else to go to—no one else to crawl to, just this pitiful, beautiful-in-more-ways-than-one girl, his clueless, dumb, stubborn, yet loyal best friend, and his teacher who's always late)
He wants to push her away from himself—he wants to tell her how annoying he she is—he wants to scream at her—say how much he hates her glimmering, glittering teal irises, always submerged in a pool of saline—say how much he hates those soft, wavy tresses of coral, and the urge to touch them—he wants to scream and shout about his hatred for her, and how she has always been in the way of what he wants.
But he can't. He just can't.
(because how could he hate someone so close to him—someone with a special place in his heart—someone he cherishes so much, he hates it, and wishes he could break the bonds that tie them together—the apple of his eye—)
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iii. just take it away
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Just a few months ago, he'd been found lying in a cave, unconscious, abandoned. Yet now, here he is, suffering the after-effects from "drowning his sorrows". The taste of the saké lingers in his mouth—it was bitter, yet had a sense of warmth to it—akin to the warmth of his mother's embrace—akin to the warmth of her whispers, dancing on the crook of his neck.
("I can take it away," she whispered to me—I can take your pain away, but only for a little while—it was an offer—forbidden—made from her to him; it was an offer he didn't back away from)
And here he is, laying next to her. The heat emanating from her slender, fragile body, mixed with uncomfortable sensation of perspiration trailing down his neck and back and the humid air is almost choking him, but simultaneously, he finds solace and comfort in the atmosphere.
(the fragrance of the burning embers of the incense, enigmatic, alluring—the indigo lavender and pastel chamomile petals harmonising with one another—the soft touch of coral, roseate and light pink shaded tresses against the perspiration tinted skin of his neck—the soft breath against his neck, calming and soothing, like a tender, breathy, light kiss of fresh air)
The tips of his calloused digits brush across her neck, idly drawing circles across her smooth, damp skin—his fingertips dancing an unnamed, alien dance. They feel rough against her neck, but she makes not a single move to stop him in this notion.
(on the contrary—she enjoys it more, and the shivers that emanate from this simple, mundane notion—but then again, anything to do with Uchiha Sasuke was never mundane)
The embers of the incense finally die out, only leaving a light, ethereal glow in the darkness. But neither of the two say a word—only drinking up the moment, the cosmos, the comfortable atmosphere, and the celestial sensation that followed from the gentle touches and soft brushes.
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iv. ashes to ashes, dust to dust
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She fulfilled her promise. She made his pain go away, replacing his pain and the hollow sensation with something much more—hysteria, fascination, rapture, delight, contentment—but the emotions left just as quickly as they came.
(the sensation of contentment—the comfortable atmosphere—the meaningless touches, caresses and whispers of amity—the sweet, fragrance scent of the incense—the meaningless decorations and petals—the soft, sweet whispers murmured against the crook of his neck—the humid, airy breaths against his skin, like a kiss of fresh, cool air—the supposedly 'comfortable silence' that followed—it only made him feel more hollow and empty)
She truly did fulfill her promise. But for what? All she'll feel is a sense of bitterness rather than love and tender affection—all she'll feel is the acerbity of her own situation, and how she brought it all upon herself.
(what was the point letting her have her way and letting himself fuck her if it wasn't done out of love? She may have been close to his heart, closer than any female had been since the death of his mother, but he didn't love her—he didn't even see her as a friend—)
But why should he care? She made an offer, and he accepted—if she hadn't wanted this, she should never have asked him. If she didn't want to feel the bitterness, she should never have approached him—but she still did. So he shouldn't worry.
(—she was just Sakura, and that's all she was to him—that's all she is to him—that's all she'll ever be to him; a person who brought him solace and light, but not a person he could love—he can never love)
Because she's Sakura—not a friend, not a lover—just Sakura. A bringer of solace. But even so, the two of them know very well—too well—that his pain will never go away permanently.
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…it's a hollow sensation, what he feels—his throat parched, mouth dry and arid, body cool and numb, senses lulled into this hollow lullaby—and it's ironic, oh so ironic that he feels hollow when he should be satisfied…
Fini
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A/N: Right. This was sortakindapossibly a spur of the moment thing. Hence why it doesn't make a lot of sense.
(And you know what was most ironic? That I was hyper when writing this—I mean, if someone's hyper, you'd think they'd write crack, or some incoherent crap—but I guess I just love writing angst too much)
Anyways. Extra Ren, I hope you liked it.
(the ending was shitty, so sorry about the ending)
Review please :)