A Straight Line
Words: 2,401
Rating:All
Pairing:Sakura x Sasuke
Disclaimer:I don't own it. You know what I'm talking about.
A/N: I've been wanting to write a short angsty one-shot for some time now but I think this one turned out too short and not angsty enough xD I have no idea what kind of oddity inspired me to write something about shapes of all things, but I know there's weirder stuff out there anyhow. I also stayed up about 3 hours later than I was supposed to while writing this, seeing as I was sleep deprived from the night before. Now I'm doubly sleep-deprived Dx

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She was a single line on a single leaf from the grand fire tree; a single but vital vein facilitating the continuance of life and of the growth of that leaf. She, like the many who had come before her and like the many that would follow in her untraceable footsteps, had bore this burden of service to her leaf, to the tree who had given her life and who would just as soon abandon it to the wind as it sheds its living coat for the season only to grow a new one in its place for the next. She, who had fought to live and love life itself and who had followed her own path towards it, never straying, never faltering, was so unlike the symbol of her family that it was pure mockery.

She was not the perfectly circular Haruno insignia, nor the spiraling whirlpool of the Uzumakis or the damning fan of the Uchihas. She was not the respected leaf emblem or the elaborate kanji that adorned her own identity. She was more simple than all of that, and at the same time she was more complex, more adaptable. She was the major vein of the leaf of Team 7, of the grand fire tree of Konoha. She was the straight and steady line.

Ever since I had first met her, I had already realized how wrong her family had been when choosing their family crest. They must have been mistaken, I thought. How could this girl be symbolized by a circle? A continuous line bent out of shape, chasing around after itself for all of eternity, always exploring that which it had already discovered and not willing to push out of its mundane existence; this was not her.

I had first seen her on our first day at the academy. We were only six. Immediately I noticed the unfamiliar white circle on an article of clothing that adorned her unrounded child-like frame and sorted out its error. Iruka-sensei would make us stand in a row every morning before class to take roll and assert discipline, he would explain to us, for Konoha's leaves were loyal until their departure from the fire tree's world and they became drained of life and color; although, I always thought that the colors of the leaves in Autumn were the most beautiful, right before the delicate things were disconnected from the being which had given them life and took it back again without remorse. As we stood in that row every day, all the children would slouch on their feet. All except for her, and I, for if my father had found out I was not disciplined I would have suffered the consequences.

But she had no reason—no parents who would punish her for disobedience, no title to uphold, no esteem or confidence yet to be had at this stage in her life as a budding leaf's vein. Yet she stood straight, refined, dutiful to her village, to her grand fire tree.

A few years had passed and we were still there at the academy. I had by then become withdrawn, for no one could understand what true betrayal and loss was like, I was certain, and preferred my own company to any other. By then, she, also, had changed, though in a much different direction from my own. Now she was more confident and lively, certain that life was meant to be beautiful and that the fragility of happiness would never shatter if kept in line. Of course, there were no bends in her line, no curves. As far as she was concerned, life could be a straight and sure line as well.

Over time she had announced that she had discovered affection for me as if determining that she did, in fact, fancy a flavor of ice cream or a book title, just like all the other girls had done. All for the boy who would rather have attracted shame and disgust than pity and admiration. I ignored her attempts to get my attention. She was a perfect straight line, no bends, no curves. She was pure and unaffected by the tangles of the world. I would not be the one to change this fact if I had things my way.

One day she wrote me a note detailing to me her feelings as if she had not made them clear enough to me through her heartfelt and incessant speech. I crumpled it up and threw it away without reading it, but before I had done so I could not help but notice the perfection of the stroke of her handwriting. The kanji was straight, methodic, clear. It was not stylized and overdone like that of the notes I had received from the other girls. I also could not help but notice the vertical tracks of tears that had made their way down her flawless and childish face as she watched me discard her affections apathetically.

Our first real mission after we became genins and were miraculously placed on the same teams (us, a spiraling jumble, a cursed and bloodied fan, and an untruthfully circular line of all things) took place in the lands of Mist. The fog was ceaselessly vague and always made for indefinite shapes. She was not ready for such haziness and her straight and delicate path was momentarily rendered indistinct, exposing her to the partial truth of where her purpose would lie and what it meant to be a part of the leaf of the grand fire tree.

Not long after this first mission, I had chosen to defect from the village in desperate search for vengeance, thus crumbling the remains of the leaf of Team 7. As I left I watched as a bend had formed in her perfect straight line and she was beginning to lose her direction hopelessly. I would not remain to see whether or not she had managed to straighten herself out again after my necessary departure. However, before I was completely out of reach of the grand fire tree's realm the Uzumaki had challenged me, had told me that he promised to bring me back to fix her, to straighten her perfect line once more. But how could such an ill-fated shape restore such? I deemed it impossible and refused to return, for what could I possibly do? I had already disturbed the flawless path and was disinclined to repeat the process. The line was now bent. Crooked. And it was all thanks to me.

Before I had at last made it away from the whirlpool, he had left me with a reminder of my actions: a scratch through the leaf of my forehead protector, like the central vein of the leaf of Team 7. I left the forehead protector with him as I walked away.

Three years I had to wait to see what had become of the awkward spiral of a boy and the crooked line of a girl. I had already sealed closed all ties with them but to deny my harbored curiosity at their becomings would be inane. Uzumaki had not changed but in the intensity of his heart, which I had found to be quite deplorable. However, it was she who had changed the most drastically, and not quite the way I had originally presumed. She had not become the Haruno circle as I anticipated, much to my, curious at the time, relief. Instead she had become straight again while at the same time less delicate as if she were enforcing the stability of her fragile path to happiness with newfound inner strength. She stood proud, confident, and sturdy, sure in her abilities and in where life would lead her. Her mental strength was surprisingly complemented with that of the physical sorts as well, I later witnessed. It was almost enough to mask the small kink that remained in her once again perfected line, one that I recognized well and only found because it was what I was looking for. Oddly enough again, I found solace in this discovery, in that she had not sorted out the last remnants of my presence upon her path.

She was for the most part a straight line again, like the horizon after she would level an entire mountain range with a single strike of a gloved fist; a direct and straightforward hit to a critical point was all that any object of any size would require to be blasted into dust. This was her fighting style, fitting of the straight and singular central vein of the grand fire tree leaves. She was again without bends, without curves.

Years later after I had at last fought my cursed final living relation in a battle that ended with no winner and two losers and a conclusion to my bloodied path of revenge, I returned to the grand fire tree as I had nowhere else to go. I was not a straight line, with my direction paved for me graciously and held in place with unparalleled will as she had done. I did not know where I would or should go, for as far as I had been concerned, my purpose had already ended and my fan bloodied.

The first time I had seen her again after my return I found that her eyes were dry and no straight rivulets had descended from them as I would have expected. My reception was understandably dry and cold, for the blood that would forever stain my fan was repelling to all but the crooked spiral of a boy and our sensei. The straight line had wisely avoided another potential threat to its integrity.

Months later, her smile became like that of her line as well. Like she, it would never bend or curve, firmly held unshaped and stable. No bends, no curves, of course.

Three more years after my return I became selfish. I had sworn to myself after the first time it had happened that her form had bent under my influence that I would remove myself from her presence so that I would not cause more harm. But I was tired of waiting for my own future to be shown to me. Tired and selfish. Why should she, who as long as I knew her had had a straight and bright path, continue to posses such while I sat in the dark and withered away as I waited for my turn to see the light?

I argued, to myself, that I had in fact seen the light and used this as justification of my actions. It was early in the morning one day as I awoke and moved myself to the frigid living room of my apartment. Rays of light shone through the blinds and cascaded about the room marvelously. They were so clear and defined as they swept across any and all objects in the darkness, even myself, and lit them up so extravagantly in clear-cut lines. I wanted this clearness in my own possession. I needed it and was entirely convinced that it needed me somehow or another.

A few months later I had her forgiveness. I could not recall how I had done so but certainly it had taken much effort that I would have originally declared out of the boundaries of the Uchiha fan.

More months later I had proposed to her, for I could no longer imagine myself without a straight path to support me or the sun's rays to guide me. I would never forgive myself for tainting the straight line yet again, but I swore to myself how I would never damage its shape again. But I was once more too foolish, too selfish, too blinded. Such were the fates of the bloodied fan and all those who chose to associate with it.

She was now as straight, and fluid, and powerful as the greatest river under the shade of the grand fire tree. She was not the miniscule vein of the tree's leaves anymore, but the major life force of all leaves at once. She would not be tossed away like last season's leaves and forgotten any longer, for her importance was too profound for this to happen again, or so I had believed.

It was true that the grand fire tree could no longer touch her and her straight-lined path. She was larger than that, and too significant, too powerful. Her line was now reinforced with steel, the kinks nearly long forgotten and unrecognizable with repair. And yet, somehow, it was the massive force of the river that had bent her. Broken her. It was all because I had interfered again and weakened the binding supports of her line that were so stable and so fragile.

The highly perilous mission had been successful if one chose to ignore our two casualties on the four man team, until our weariness had caught up with us. We were careless and were eventually ambushed. She, being heavily weighed down with injuries and the load of a fallen comrade and fading lifelong influence upon her bending frame, had suffered the worst of us in the onslaught of attacks and stumbled into the raging life-bestowing flow in the canyon below, spiral, line, and all.

She is now resting on white sheets, her spirit, her body, and her character yet again bent, curved, fitting of her family name. The Uzumaki watches on fearfully, badly hurt himself but withstanding because of his enduring and sturdy shape, already curved since its beginnings, while I concentrate instead on the machine beside her recording her heartbeat rhythmically.

I watch this consistently bending line, always breaking in places erratically. It is twisted, inconstant, not continuous, and failing to stretch as far as it can reach because its bends fold its distance greedily, restraining it from attaining its distant goal and exploring the far-off unknowns. Eventually it is again liberated and breaks loose from the hampering bends and breaks, smoothening out and becoming perfectly straight once more.

Her family symbol is indeed unfitting. She is a delicate and fragile straight line, reinforced with sheer willpower and inner strength. She is like the veins of the grand fire tree, like the direct flight of an arrow, like the blade of a sword, like the force of her punch, like the flow of a mighty river. There are no bends, no curves. Just Sakura.

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I beg thee for feedback (reviews) kind sirs/madams :V There is nothing more a newbie writer could ask for.

And a new chapter of A Promise for the Birds will come out soon… I hope D: