Disclaimer: I do not own Naruto or any of the characters in this story.
This story is actually rather old. It was an experiment, back in my AP English and Literature class days. I was trying my hand at various literary mechanics. I never posted it however, a bit unsure. I opened it a week ago and I decided that I would sort of remodel it and make it according to my present taste and knowledge. It's still very much an experiment however. So tell me what you think.
White
There were a lot of things that Sasuke could admit to not liking. Rarely though, unless it came to his brother, did he openly communicate such information about himself. He preferred anonymity on certain things about himself, but it could be hardly overlooked that Sasuke disliked, hated, and even loathed some things. The hospital conceivably, was one of his most observed and scrutinized dislikes, noticed by those closest to him, or whoever happened upon the chance to realize the fear and anger behind one of his ardent denials of being injured or sick enough for an appointment.
Just the mention of a visit made the boy's spine shudder; an intense fury and defiance reflecting off the luster of his blood-reddened eyes. Anger, anxiety, apprehension, abhorrence, and alarm. All these burning emotions coursed through the Uchiha at the very mention of the word 'hospital,' or 'doctor,' or 'medical attention.' It was always the last things he wanted and he would go through hell and hot water to avoid it.
He'd rather bleed dangerously for half an hour while he took care of it himself, even if his limited medical knowledge was not nearly enough. He'd even put his pride aside and let Kakashi wrap his injuries if it meant avoiding a trip to the hospital. It was no secret, that one of the last Uchihas remaining hated hospitals.
Few understood why, and even fewer understood that it wasn't actually the hospital that he disliked, but the past memories, which were of nothing in particular. There was nothing defining or distinct that he could remember about the hospital itself from that particular stay, except for that white room. There was so much white. That color was all he remembered and he realized that these days, it bothered him gravely to stare at it for much longer than a few fleeting seconds.
And it clicked to the Uchiha one day as he sat at a wooden desk by his window, misted and pelted by the rain on the other side, that he had a genuine problem and abhorrence with the color. He had looked down to observe a very clean sheet of sketching paper. Its page; white, white, completely, without a doubt, spotless clean white. Not ivory white or shaded white, but plain, simple, blinding, and deathly-pale white. And it all reminded him of that dazed time he spent…
And his heart rate increased, his eyes fogged over, his breath hitched. All the while his mental images flashed ashen, and the entire room was clouded in a dazing white, until he grabbed the sheet on a whim, crumpled it tightly and holding it in the palms of his hands for a while, and threw it into a trash bin a few feet away. He decided sketching was not what he wanted to do on that rainy day.
Years went by before even he could understand his own irrational trepidations which he refused to quite label as "phobias", but one thing he knew for sure was that it was not simply the hospital that led to his irresolvable emotions. It was the color white, something that he would probably always associate with the other.
He didn't know why this started, but he could guess when. Though it had been so long ago, it had obviously left its mark on him up to this very point. Psychologically, he had a problem. A minor problem he thought, but a problem nonetheless. He had an irrational hatred of the color white. Perhaps his odium would even extend into the region of dread. The color or perhaps, the lack of color was disgusting and numbingly horrid to his mind. It made him feel dizzy when he entered a room full of white furniture, or white walls, or a white carpet where his eyes got lost.
He felt as if his head was spinning and his stomach would start to turn and broil in his own increasing heat. His mind would flash back to a time of confusion, denial, shock, and memory lapse. He would never remember all that happened in that week and a half that somehow felt simultaneously an eternity longer and a great deal shorter. It was all such a daze to him; a long, dazed, and hazy occurrence of staring into dead white nothingness. That's all he could ever remember and probably all he ever would.
Out of all the days he spent in the hospital after his clan's massacre, the only memory he'd left with was that sickeningly pale, lifeless, unstained white that had bore into his dark onyx eyes; equally lifeless, but deeply stained with the sight of death. After all these years, that white room was still all he remembered, and he knew he would never remember anything more of the hospital stay in which he was in for no actual physical harm.
But that was years ago. He needed to overcome this…stigma. It was shameful and embarrassing to be so bothered by a simple color, or the lack of color. He was never sure how to put it.
But now as he laid in the hospital bed, covered by cotton and silk white sheets, and stared at the white walls and the pale white floor made out of a material he was unsure of, he felt confused and lost again, Like he did all those years ago when he had lost them and a part of himself too.
He had lost everything and everyone back then, and he thought he would never see again, any color other than the white pale skin of the sheets, and the walls, and the reflective floor. It all smothered him with the thought of death.
He again felt like the scared, terrified, and traumatized little boy who could only stare soullessly and dead-like at the wall in front of him. The doctors in their white coats would come and ask him questions and try and get him to talk, but he never would. Not for nearly two weeks did he began to talk again and the first words out of his mouth were screams and cries for his Mother and Father as tears marched mournfully down his face.
He felt like doing it again. He wanted to scream their names. He wanted his mother and father there with him. Even the thought of having his brother entered his thoughts, if it could be the kind, tender one he used to love. He felt terrified, and scared as he sat in the depths of a different evocative of death and he wanted comfort. He wanted to break out. He felt alone all over again, like everyone he loved and who loved him back was dead and he was the only one in the entire humanity left.
But he wasn't alone. He always had to remind himself of that. That he wasn't alone anymore and that everything in his life was not dead, regardless of what the walls staring at him and the sheets wrapped around his pale, white body said. He was no longer alone and he would feel this even stronger every time he was in a hospital room and came across the instant where he was allowed visitors.
He almost wanted to cry when he felt the warm pressure on his shoulder and he looked up to see Naruto with that goofy smile on his face, slightly crooked because of the grieving, relived features of his tear-streaked face. And Kakashi was at his side too, patting his head with that fatherly affection. Sakura would always cry softly before she came to him, throwing her arms around his neck in warmth and love.
It was times like this where he would remember he wasn't alone anymore, and the color white didn't bother him so much, because his eyes would be too crowded with orange, pink, and green blurred by hidden tears. It was times like this when he didn't feel trapped in that white room all over again, and where he felt the warmth of having a family again.
End
Its not my typical writing style but it was quite a lot of fun to write about a year and a halve ago and it was fun re-working it and smoothing out some of its edges when it re-emerged out of nowhere. I'm glad I challenged myself. Please review with your opinions and if you think some of the mechanics of literature (symbolism, metaphor, motifs, etc,...) came through and delivered the message or did they fail in some way even if you "got it".
Thank you for your time.