A/N: I'm having too much fun avoiding studying for finals by writing various one-shots.
Karin hated seeing her sister like this. She hated seeing her walk up the driveway, façade on full display until the front door closed and she collapsed to the floor.
She hated hearing the sound her purse made, the clinking together of all the pill bottles – both prescription and over the counter – that got her sister through the day.
But the thing she hated most was that Sakura hated it just as much as her.
That she had entrapped herself in this life, and she believed there was no going back.
Oh-so-delicately, Sakura removed her offending clothes – all deceivingly white; supposed to be sterile and pure, but Sakura was no longer any of that – that gave way to a myriad of bruises of all shapes, sizes, and colors.
Teeth imprints riddled her waist, and Karin knew they went down farther.
Just like every other day – or night, as it was nearly 5 in the morning and the world was still dark outside – Karin tore herself away from the article she was writing to assist her.
Sakura would insist that she was fine and after denying Karin for anywhere between two seconds and two hours, she would break down, sink to her knees and into Karin's waiting arms.
She'd stroke her sister's hair – incredibly gentle – and kiss her temple, wishing that all her pain went away.
That Sakura's boss would stop using her as a punching bag in one instant and a sex toy the next, that he would get fired, that his wife would care and tell him to stop, or Sakura would quit her job at the most renown and modern hospital in the country and forever ruin her dream.
Because, of course, her boss was also the owner, and if she left…he'd ruin her life. For the hell of it.
But she still hated it. She hated it so much.
She gripped Sakura's shoulders as light as she could; Sakura had been shaking so bad she began to fall over, and that wouldn't be pleasant for her in her current state.
After a few minutes, Sakura regained her balance and eased herself to her feet. She gave Karin a gentle hug before limping her way to her room, to follow her routine of an hour-long scrubbing in the shower then calling her boyfriend to ensure him she was still alive, but Karin always texted him when she returned.
With a sad sigh, she returned to her article – a piece about physical and sexual abuse in the workplace; fitting – and began typing with more vigor than before, willing her harsh banging of the keys drowned out the dull moans of pain coming from down the hall, all the while trying to keep her own tears at bay.