reflections in a mirror
If he was careful he could almost hear the skin-prickling screams of his mother and he could almost taste his father's fear and almost feel his brother's pride. If he closed his eyes and forced himself to stop breathing, he could taste the warm, metallic blood dripping down his chin as he marked his kin, relishing in the cries of half-broken children.
The smell of burnt embers and ash comforted him as he sat and watched the complex go up in flames, consuming every piece of wood and material and flesh laying within. He could picture their horrified faces perfectly, eyes wide in confusion and terror, mouths open—spilling with shouts and demands and pleads as the orange flames licked their skin, burning it to crisp. He missed the feel of sticky, velvet red coating his hands and cheeks, hiding with dirt and grime beneath his dull fingernails. It was pleasing to watch the agony they morphed into, swirl and disappear with growing clouds of ink black smoke taking over the clear midnight sky.
Every worker at Callifer's Institute for the Criminally Insane tried to resist the sinful seduction he put them all through, men and women alike. But on occasions some would slip, fall for his sickening charm and bring him a canvas, a fine tipped paintbrush, and a wheel of watercolors. The worker usually stayed for a while, trying to catch a glimpse at what the great Uchiha Sasuke would create next, and that's when he'd strike. The ends of the brushes they would bring him were some of the best, and deadly sharp. And whatever moronic worker decided to twist the rules for the eighteen year old once more would never see the light of day again. He quite like the sight of the thick crimson against the white canvas. It contrasted so nicely, especially when stained upon his ghostly pale hands.
It reminded him of that night, where all of his elders bowed down to him. Showed him respect and pleaded with him until their very last breath.
The memoirs of his latest art work was always worth the days he would be thrown into the straight-jacket, sitting in a room cushioned with foam and colored the brightest white he had ever seen. Sasuke was an artist, so he admired the shade of white. It was fascinating, and with a harsh chomp on his tongue, his own blood made the room much more lively.
Sasuke was an artist and the world was his canvas. The night he set his kin ablaze was his most favorite masterpiece of them all.
fin.