WARNING: Possible triggers ahead. If you are sensitive about suicide or death, I recommend clicking away immediately.
This is not a love story but one about struggle and being haunted and ultimately defeated.
"I'm sorry. I love you."
It's hard sometimes. Most times. It still feels heavy; it still sounds loud. There are moments when I cannot catch my breath and where I can no longer stand. There are instances where I reach for you - where I reach to grasp your hand to settle me, to steady me, but there is nothing there. No one is there anymore. I clutch at the air and over my heart that aches every day. There's a hole. There's such a large, painful emptiness. Some days, it feels like a disease slowly crippling me, spreading and spreading. Some days, I lie in bed without moving, unable to think of anything but a question: what's the point? I would leave our - my - room to see the pictures collecting dust on the walls in the hallway. I'd see the sofa we'd embrace each other on in the living room. I'd see where we'd bicker about what was for dinner in the kitchen. I would see us.
I don't want to see us.
I close my eyes and I see enough.
Today is another hard day. My morning routine goes by mechanically. I barely remember it. I'm in my car. I'm at work. I block out everything around me. I don't care about your child. I don't care about your cat. I don't care about the memo or report due. I don't care.
It's been three months. It's so hard to breathe today.
I'm home again.
Without you.
I can't sit on that couch. I'm not hungry. I don't want to be here. It's so hard. It's too hard.
Another month passes as now unpacked boxes are collecting dust. These walls are new. They are blank and void. It's a studio apartment now, everything all wrapped up in one central location. It's open. It's wide. The windows are nice. I can watch the city pass. For now, for a long time, I don't wish to be in a house again. I peer to my left at a box marked with your name on it. My jaw clenches. I move toward it and pick it up, shuffling it awkwardly in my arms as it's just a touch too wide to carry properly. I move toward a closet I left open and drop the box inside carefully. I push it a little further in. I grab one more box with your name and do the same. I close the closet, my hand lingering on the door before it slips down and off and falls to my side. I stare hard at the containers through the doors. I swallow and turn, my head lowered.
I hate that I feel ashamed. I feel like I'm stuffing you inside there. I don't mean to run away. Your picture remains at my bed side. I won't forget you. I promise. You aren't gone from me completely. Not even remotely. Just physically. Spiritually. This place is colder than the house, but then again, you were always the one spiking the thermostat. I don't know what this one's set at. I don't even know where it is.
I settle myself on the bed and stare at the floor boards below. What do I do now?
I sleep. I wake. I work. I return. Still, I leave my boxes unpacked. My clothes are put away, at least. A few kitchen items are out: two bowls, a plate, a few bits of silverware, a pot, a pan, a cutting board... your silly fox cookie jar you got from your grandmother. It's empty. I don't bake. I don't like sweets. It'll never be filled, and it's orange color sticks out terribly with the pale green theme of the kitchen area.
Haruno tried hinting at coming to see my new place today. I don't want her to set foot in here. I don't want anyone from home coming here. I don't want this place... infected. I want to be alone here.
Except I don't want to be alone.
The city lights up nicely at night. The cars glitter as they go by, especially when it rains. I can see them doing construction a few streets north. I wonder what's going to be there, though honestly, I couldn't care less.
I turn and look around my new home. My new home.
... This is still hard.
My face contorts - my eyebrows furrow and I can feel my mouth frowning. I'm angry. I'm frustrated. I'm hurt. There's so much pain. I don't know what to do with myself.
I'm so mad at you.
I'd say I hate you but I could never bring myself to feel that. It'd be the biggest lie of my life.
Why aren't you here with me?
You idiot.
Ow. The hardwood floors are merciless on my knees. I can't breathe again. It's another attack. The room is spinning. I clutch at my throat as I curl into myself, as if to hope that'll help settle me but it doesn't do a damn thing. I have to ride it out. Again. And again. And again. Despite trying to get away from the trigger, the gun keeps reloading and shooting itself. There is no safety. I am not safe. Weeks pass and I continue to have these attacks.
I finally cave.
Therapy sucks as much as I expected it to.
A month into it and I feel no better, but my attacks have lessened thanks to the medicine.
The medicine is nice.
Very nice.
I don't feel good.
I've never been in a hospital before. It's so sterile and plain. But it's funny. I can't help but smile at the thought of you being so mad at me for being here, and in that, I just find it even more funny because I'm so mad that you're not here. I laugh. I cry. The nurse stares. I don't care.
It's been a long time since Itachi has yelled at me. He almost ripped my shirt when he grabbed me. His hand across my cheek felt horrible.
Here I am again, sitting on the edge of my bed, but Itachi is here. He'll be here for the next week. I'm surprised he managed to get so much time off. He's always working, always keeping himself busy. That must be nice. Meanwhile, I cannot stand to be at work anymore. I've had a lot of sick days recently. I've been tempted to use my vacation days. I mention that to Itachi but he heavily scolds me. He cooks me a proper meal that night and I sleep unwillfully that night.
I awake at three in the morning, screaming, crying, panicking. Itachi shakes me out of my horror and I curl into him. I'm a mess. Itachi gives me the proper dosage of my medicine and I take it eagerly. I haven't had a nightmare of you in a very long time. I don't want to overdose again.
A month comes and goes. Time is flying yet I still feel stuck. I take my medicine daily. I take the ordered amount. I breathe okay. I stand okay. I function okay. But I am numb. I'm so very numb.
Therapy still sucks but I sort of look forward to it now. There's not a session that goes by where you're not mentioned. I'd like to keep it this way but my therapist doesn't seem keen on it. Fuck them. I don't care how my family is doing. Rather - I know they're doing fine. What does it matter? Itachi just landed a big case in his law firm and it's going well. Mother has opened up a side business that's flourishing and father is still chief of police at home. I am not disconnected. What are my friends doing?
...
What are my friends doing.
I don't know.
The session is over. I go home. I sit myself in front of the new PC my brother purchased for my birthday two weeks ago. My eyes burn into the screen and homepage of the social media site I haven't been on it over four months. Shikamaru got engaged. The wedding is in June of next year. That's nice.
Will I be okay then? I thought, staring at the status announcement. I scroll down. I move onward. For hours that day, I read status', shares, updates, look at pictures upon pictures and only when it rolls over eleven pm do I finally notice my own profile picture.
My heart sinks.
I turn off the computer instantly.
I don't sleep that night.
I don't go to work the next day.
I feel sick and dizzy. I don't feel like my medicine is working. I'm panicking. I can feel it, but it's suppressed. I call Itachi. He talks me down. I'm okay again. I think.
That weekend, I do take vacation time, but to see my family. It's been a long time. I don't stay in my room - you've been there. I stay in a guest room. Thankfully, my parents do not question it and my brother, also visiting, does not push it. Coming home that weekend felt good, but going home felt nice too.
I near my nightstand and gently pluck the picture from its surface. I clutch it in both hands and stare at the two within the captured moment. The smile on my face looks so foreign to me, but the smile on yours is so...
I wrench my eyes shut and place the picture face-down. I fall into bed and scream into my pillow. My eyes burn.
I'm so alone without you.
I miss you so much.
This is so hard.
I hate you.
I love you.
Why did you have to take yourself away from me...? What did I do wrong? Was I not enough? How much of our happiness was a lie you conjured? Could I not have helped further? Why couldn't you have talked to me? Why didn't you say anything? Why did you leave me only a note with five words...? You selfish prick.
Do you feel better?
It hurts so much.
It's unbearable.
I don't want to keep living like this. Would you be mad if I joined you...? Wouldn't that be hypocritical? If I want to do that, you'd have no right in being mad.
Swiftly, I turn myself. I head to the kitchen. I grab a knife. I press it hard to my wrist. I'm crying so hard, it's difficult to focus. My head is pounding and my heart is racing. I try to press the knife harder, I try to slide it - but it won't go. My hands are shaking. My body is shaking. I yell out and throw the knife at the ground and turn and shove my fist through the nearest wall.
This isn't fair! Why am I bound by how you feel when you're gone when you didn't care how I felt about you leaving?! Why can't I...
Why can't I be with you...?
I just want to be with you.
Did you not want to be with me...?
Was I really not enough...?
This life isn't enough without you anymore...
It will always feel empty.
Five more months pass. I quit my job last week. I sold the majority of the stuff in my apartment. I stored your stuff at my parents. I have the picture of us in my pocket. My foot is pressing harder and harder on the gas. The car surpasses eighty. Ninety. The wheel feels unsteady as it hits one hundred. My fingers curl painfully over the steer. I'm so focused about what's forward that I jump when my phone suddenly goes off. Grinding my teeth at whom I see on the caller ID, I answer it.
He's screaming at me to come home.
I tell him I can't. I hang up. There's a letter waiting for them on my bed. I dial a different number. I know he won't pick up. It goes to voicemail instantly.
"I'm sorry," I tell you. "I love you, too." I set the phone in the passenger seat without ending the call. I press the car faster.
Finally, I see my chance.
I didn't give the semi-truck driver time to swerve and miss me.
A/N - This wasn't meant to be a happy ending, nor a romantic one - that's why it's not labelled as such. It's a heavy, sensitive story, as it's meant to be. Not everything can have a happy ending, and I just wanted some practice at a heavy subject. Given Sasuke's mentality versus Naruto's, there's a reason I had this turn out very different than Raining. I don't normally write things like this, and more than likely this won't be my norm at all. Nothing serious as this has happened in my life nor am I contemplating something even remotely similar, but I wanted to try my hand at something very different and extreme.