Author's Note: To be short, sweet, and simple, I'd say that this story is dark, short, and full of blood.
Enjoy.
Summary: Dark AU SasuSaku fic. Sasuke and Sakura are married. But Sasuke snaps one night and decides to take a leaf out of Itachi's book and cut down on the number of people in his family.
Vermillion Blood
The deep vermillion liquid crept away from Sasuke's freshly cut skin and dribbled onto his wife's now-still form. Silly Sakura. She had tried to get away, tried to hurt him, but in the end… well… she was dead now.
"Oops," he spoke, breaking the newly found silence carefully. The woman had never stopped talking when he was around. He wondered if she really was pregnant. Oh well, too bad. He could always find another wife.
He wiped at his small mouth with his sleeve, attempting to wipe away the blood, but only managed to smear the dark liquid across his cheeks.
"I guess I slipped." There was another careful pause. "Sakura."
The kitchen knife clattered to the floor as he brushed invisible (and possibly nonexistent) lint off of his shirt. He noticed several scarlet stains on the lapels of said shirt and realized that the blood probably wouldn't come out any time soon.
Damn it... he had just bought that shirt. And it had been on sale, too.
No one would notice the stains in the dark, though, especially if the shirt was hidden under his coat. And if anyone asked about the smell... well, he'd had a little too much red wine and spilt a bit. That was all.
He pulled his thick woolen overcoat on, regardless of the fact that his clothing was drenched in a sticky red liquid, and that the liquid would undoubtedly dirty the inner lining of his coat. He could always buy a new coat. Or even get this one dry-cleaned.
His shoes made impressive clacking noises as he walked away from the prone form on the laminate kitchen floor. All expensive shoes made lovely clacking noises on laminate and wood flooring. Not to mention on stone as well.
The diamond chequered flooring complimented his wife's blood nicely. His pink-haired wife had always been keen on matching colors; she had gone ballistic when she had decorated the house. She would have been proud. Her blood was fanning out around her and soaking into her shirt; she looked like a famous abstract painting. But she had hated abstract art.
He twisted the doorknob and left the house with no expression on his face. He had places to go to, things to do, and people to kill.
My, this was getting fun.
And he had only just begun.
Oh how lovely and depressing.
One-shot, or not to be one-shot? That is the question. Review and tell me your views on this pressing dilemma.
