TW: This story is going to contain a lot of material dealing with depression, self-harm, and suicidal thoughts. If you can't stomach these kinds of stories or it could possibly trigger you then turn back now. If you decide to continue reading then just know that this is mostly my own way of coping and working through my own problems, so don't judge too harshly, okay? I'll change the rating if I get enough complaints about it, but honestly I think T is just fine since I know that plenty teens are obviously mature enough if they're dealing with any of the above mentioned. I think that's all I've got to say on the matter. Carry on. -Yopū
A scene of blood isn't something that most people would consider peaceful, and indefinitely so if it is their own.
To Yuka, though, it caused a shallow well of calmness within her. She stared at the freshly skinned knee with dull grey eyes. It wasn't a big scrape, barely enough to even draw blood, but there it was nonetheless. Small and angry, crimson droplets oozed from the tiny wound. The shine of the light catching on the liquid made it appear brighter, and the more it pooled on her slightly bent knee the more it seemed to shine. Yuka was utterly captivated by the sight. Any of her previous thoughts, however dreary they were, became muted at the image of strange tranquility.
But as the pain in her knee subsided, then her thoughts came back roaring with the fierceness of the ignored. It was just like her to trip over something she left lying in the hallway. Of all thing that had to of been the most perfectly easiest of them to avoid, she had tripped over her backpack. A big, lumpy item; easily seen from either end of the hallway. Yet she had paraded around and botched it like a drunkard. Typical. Each word echoing in her head sounded like an eery repetition of her mother.
She flinched and automatically mumbled an apology to an empty hallway. Slowly, Yuka pulled herself up off the ground and smoothed out the navy pleated skirt, a stark contrast to her pale legs. Her right one had developed what looked like a vibrant rash with peeling skin, the little beads of blood disappearing back into her body with the folding of her skin. Absently, she walked back the way she had come from and into a small bathroom on the left hand side. She stepped over discarded clothes and towels, her actions robotic as she reached for the sliding mirror to grab a plain bandaid behind it. Yuka hardly even blinked as she quickly snatched a packet and tore it open, placing it gingerly on her knee.
She never even bothered to clean it.
As she closed the mirror, her somber gaze caught that of her reflection. Yuka blinked and took a moment to study her appearance. Her hair reminded her of cornsilk, pale and thin with the only volume coming from the natural waviness. It was let down, the most common and simplistic of styles that didn't scream for attention. The only hair out of place was a small curl she had never been able to rid herself of at the top of her head. Her small face was complemented with an equally small mouth and nose, with large slate grey eyes and thin eyebrows completing a portrait of perfection. The skin tone on her face was slightly brighter than the rest of her body, a look of perfect health if she were to use exact wording. It was just makeup, as she knew with a tinge of bitterness, hiding away the unhealthy pallor and dark rings underneath her eyes.
Deeming her appearance worthy, she finished shutting the mirror and turned away.
Yuka padded down the colorless hallway once more and retrieved her knocked over backpack. It was plain, the way she preferred, and it went no where else except for where it belonged: On her back. With nothing left to detain her in this ordinary, monotonous place, she made for the door. Just before stepping out she slipped into black flats. Outside the early morning light caressed her skin and clothes and brought along a faint sense of heat.
All Yuka felt was the overbearing weight of a false hope.
[- = -]
Navy stockings slid into pristine white shoes. Yuka did her best to avoid staring at the ground, an irresistible urge to marr the footwear in some way building pressure at the base of her skull. She bid her black flats farewell by shutting the small locker door on them and turning to leave, occasionally knocking the tips of her feet against the ground to get more comfortable in the different shoes.
Her gaze remained locked forward, not even really taking in her surroundings. Yuka moved purely on memory alone. Nothing was important enough for her to even want to look around. Not the way the light shined through the windows and casted patterns on the floor. Not the occasional vending machine to tempt her into consuming its already far too expensive products. Not even a glance was spared for the groups of chattering, giggling, happy friends oddly clustered and dispersed everywhere.
To Yuka, the only thing important was making it up to the second floor and into her seat before the hordes arrived.
She must always be on time, always get the best grades, and always remain above the rest. It was really her mother's way of saying: Always be early, always be at the top of the class, and most of all always remember that she was above everyone. Despite living up to her mother's expectations to the best of her abilities and then some, she somehow always managed to fall short anyways. She wasn't ever early enough, even though she got up there in the top scores it wasn't the top score, and the farthest she would ever attempt at superiority was being class rep. Her ideals of perfection would never match up with her mother's.
Her hand was on the door handle before she even realized it, letting herself into the silent classroom. She took her seat in the front row on the left hand side, one spot away from one of three big windows. Yuka quietly removed a workbook from her bag, several worksheets of homework sticking out of them. She had spent a good majority of the night finishing them off and saved barely any time for her own personal agenda of sleep. Flipping it to the first worksheet, she began to pour over her answers with tired but fresh eyes.
She was already impatient, and wished class would begin sooner.
[- = -]
Fingers dance gracefully over black and white keys, memory of time consuming practice and old, crusting ambition being the backbone of her posture. The music room was always, almost rather surprisingly, empty during lunch. Not that Yuka minded in the least, in fact she preferred it that way, as it was the perfect place to escape to. From both the people and herself.
Ever since she was a child she had been encouraged to play the piano. Her father had done it, as had his father, and her mother had dabbled in her own youth. The skill had been held in such high-esteem then as an art, and Yuka had gladly taken to it. But over the years, as she had shown such academic growth and her own form of maturity, it had become nothing more than just an achievement to add to an ever growing resume of solid perfection. As her mother had said, playing the piano adds to her character and shows her to be undeniably capable. At the time it had meant something, but now she wasn't so sure she even had a character to be speaking of, especially since her little brother had come into the picture.
Yet Yuka never stopped practicing the instrument. Whenever her fingers touched the smooth keys the notes would always crowd out her other thoughts, make her forget herself. She liked the freedom that came with playing music on the piano. The feelings that she always played hide-and-seek with came out on display, and because of it she finally felt like she was being honest about herself with herself. Even the happiest of songs could reflect the hollowness she felt day after day and Yuka found it to be like untethering something naturally meant to float. Perhaps it was like letting a balloon go.
But eventually even a balloon must either deflate, or pop.
The final key, a high D sharp, faded into silence. Yuka's hands fell limply off the keys and hit the bench with a dull thump. Occasionally that balloon would simply be tied to a rock and dragged further down.
Yuka stood up, her whole body feeling numb. Mindlessly, she walked over to the corner of the room that harbored cupboards and closets. A large window, covered by a medium sized wooden plank in the middle, was partially open. She stood in front of it momentarily to feel the warm spring breeze flutter through. Normally people dedicated this kind of air to sensations of peace and calmness, of hope and clarity, but for Yuka it meant nothing. A spring breeze carried only false promises of better times.
She backed away from the window and knelt next to the nearest closet. There was a thin space between it and the wall, and it was here that she stuck her fingers and groped blindly for an object. Yuka stopped when the tips of her nails brushed against something hard. With a slight nudge and a wiggle she brought the item closer, pulling it out of hiding.
The shard of glass glinted wickedly in the dim light of the shadowed corner. Yuka turned it over and over in her hands, meticulously studying the edges. Last week someone had thrown a rock at the window hard enough to make a hole. Yuka had been there to help clean up the mess, and as she watched the janitors throw away the glass she felt it such a waste.
She quit twirling the glass around and simply stared at it, at a part of her own translucent reflection.
Oftentimes she wondered how it would feel to cut herself on glass. She wondered if it would hurt more than a non-serrated edge. But most of all she wondered if she could capture that sense of peace yet again. Her mind flashed briefly to this morning, how as the blood left her body, so did her tension and horrid thoughts and emotions.
Yuka had never cut herself intentionally, everything being the result of a careless accident, but the thought was never far off. She kept a few razor blades stashed away, and would look at them whenever the thoughts were overwhelming. But when push came to shove she always put them away in the end. As much as she wanted a release, preferably permanent, for the ever increasing pressure in her mind and heart, she was too chicken to do anything to herself. Although she would admit an accident would be perfectly acceptable. But she'd never be so lucky as to get an out that easily.
"Oh so you are still here. I thought you left and was kinda upset 'cause I kinda liked listening to you play the piano."
Yuka whirled around, hands sliding smoothly behind her back to hide what now felt like incriminating evidence. Her expression remained neutral as she studied the boy leaning through the open window, who was also staring down at her. Slowly she found her way into a standing position and at eye level with the boy.
"You startled me, Uchiha-san," she commented dully. The boy made a face at her formality and waved it away like it was a disgusting smell. His almond shaped eyes scrunched tightly together, coal black hair spiking up in such an unruly way it made her wonder if he even bothered to comb it, or if it was just naturally that way- like her own hair. (Her thoughts ruefully found their way to the one particular curl on top of her head and she almost made a face of her own.) He grinned though and opened his eyes again. They shined like black jade even though they weren't facing the light.
"Aw come on Class Rep, I know you know my name. It's okay to call me by it. Just don't use any honorifics unless you're gonna call me -sama!" He winked but she felt no desire to return his playfulness. Being in this particular student's presence was a jarring way to bring into focus just how much energy she really lacked.
"Alright, Obito...san," For a brief moment Yuka struggled with accommodating his request and flat out ignoring the rules of etiquette, or ignoring his request and following through with ingrained habit. Needless to say ingrained habit won. Obito pursed his lips in a small pout, but quickly shook it off and leaned casually against the windowsill.
Yuka fidgeted, unsure of how to handle him in this situation. From vague moments that she actually paid attention to her peers she remembered that this particular student was a loud and boisterous person. He was also friends with the male counterpart of the class representative, Kakashi Hatake. But beyond that she didn't really know much about him.
"How long have you been playing the piano, Yuka-chan?" She blinked at his bold usage of the honorific. It appeared that he was trying to make a point to her. Pretty clever, she supposed.
Yuka glanced briefly at the piano before returning her attention to him. His diligent pursuance of conversation is startling. "Since I was seven. Have you played the piano before?"
Obito shrugged and shook his hand back and forth like he was rocking a boat. "Gram has a piano, but I've never played a legitimate song on it. Always thought it'd be fun to though."
She didn't question the name he had given, it wasn't any of her business anyways. It was most likely just a relative. Instead she responded with a polite nod of acknowledgement to his answer. The silence quickly overtook the conversation and she found that she was unsure of how to pursue any more of it, not that she held any desire to do so. After all, he was just as much of a stranger to her as she was to him.
A bell tolled with what seemed like muted volume to her ears, signifying the end of the lunch period. Obito pulled away from the window and raised his hand in farewell. A light hearted smile tugged his lips and he saluted to her, body already turning to go.
"Well, I'll see you back in class," He away completely and began to walk off. His actions halted as he cast her a backwards glance. "Oh, and I hope you keep playing the piano. You're really good at it and I think it sounds beautiful."
Her eyes widened just a fraction, the sincerity in his words and soft, tender smile filling her with surprise quicker than water could fill a bowl. Heat rushed unbidden in response to the sudden emotion, her cheeks warming up hotter than a fever, if that were possible. Obito finally turned away and left her alone. A slight breeze tugged playfully at her limp hair in his wake, even cooling her flushed skin a little. Without realizing it, her grip on the shard of glass loosened and it fell to the floor with a slight chime.
The sound broke the figurative spell such moments have claimed to place on people like herself. Yuka blinked and stared down at the clear item laying like a discarded puzzle piece, kneeling slowly and gingerly picking it up. The action drained her and left a hollow pin the center of her chest and mind. Anything felt mere moments ago vanished too quickly for her to get a good taste of. She looked over to the closet and stretched to return the glass to its hiding place before standing yet again, robotically smoothing out her skirt.
Yuka turned on her heel and returned to the piano, snatching her bag off the seat and neatly swinging it over her shoulders. Unintentionally, her eyes drifted over the clean keys of the piano. Her left hand grazed one of them and a soft sound shivered from within the instrument.
You're really good at it and I think it sounds beautiful.
The hollowness faded to a peaceful cotton. She didn't necessarily feel better, she hadn't felt "better" for a long, long time, but it was a state of contentment where she could simply drift. Just drift and not be expected to think too deeply or feel anything for the sake of feeling. Almost like a form of ignorant bliss.
It had been awhile since she had heard a compliment and felt it was genuine.
Yuka turned and walked away from the piano, a slightly stronger feeling of wholeness dominating her mindset.
Perhaps two negatives really do equal a positive.
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