Title: Pray for sin
pairing: ItaXsaku
rated: M for mature
summary: She stepped on shadows that sighed like innocence being raped. Itasaku- about vampires, priests and orphans.
A.U.
Stupid
She thinks her pink hair is stupid, that the world is crazy and that maybe she should have never been born.
The prostitute agrees; sucking on her cancer stick and licking her dry lips, leaving the puffs of smoke to linger in the air. Sakura watched as the older woman stood off the ground and began to talk with a man that walked by.
Sakura watches her friend walk away, swaying her hips and disappearing into a cold night of forever.
Sakura is left wondering which opinion the woman had agreed on.
Morning
In the morning, the eight year old girl with pink hair and green eyes watches as a crowd gathers around something in the ground. She steps in, being as small as she is; she crawls underneath to get a better look.
She gets a good glimpse of what the crowd is looking at; a dead prostitute, corset undone, ruby red lips smeared and brown hair disheveled. Sakura can still see the cigarette in her hand, remnant wisps of smoke still dissipating into the morning air.
Shadows
She stepped on shadows that sighed like innocence being raped and walked by alleys that hid men with evil thoughts.
The shadows were her constant companions; the epitome of friends.
"When I die," she told them, fingers casting a waving with a dark intangible hand on the brick walls, "people won't cry," her shadow nodded, agreeing.
No tears, no proof that she ever existed.
"But," she smiled a secret smile that the shadow couldn't mimic and whispered to the wall, "You'll be right by my side."
London Bridge
She doesn't sleep under the bridges anymore. Not because of the smell, she could live with the smell, not even because of the damp cold floor. She doesn't sleep under the bridges because she remembers waking up to a dead child, blood still fresh and umbilical cord uncut. When she turned around, she saw its mother; eyes open wide and lips stitched shut.
She avoids sleeping under bridges whenever she can.
Angels
She always watches them hurry into church, as if a devil were chasing them or as if the black iron doors would close if they didn't scurry inside.
It makes her curious.
She sneaks in, behind a tower of white, and cringes at the beings in white with the unmoving eyes, stiff hands and the forever fluttering gowns that freeze in the unmoving air. The fear of their eyes on her form scares her, the way their wings suspend in a time still.
She wants to compare their wings to a dove, but can't. She's never seen them, those white birds of peace. Not in that dark gray sky.
So she compares them to the pigeons outside, she's almost sure the dirty wings don't make a difference.
Myth
She's been on the streets long enough to know that stories aren't just stories and that myths aren't just myths.
But she's a little reluctant to accept the folktale the gypsy tells her.
"Vampires aren't real; they're a myth to make children pray." She says, frowning as she does.
"They are real, little one." He answers and begins to soothe his horses' ear. "Prayer cannot make a vampire go away, even if the priests tell you so."
"Then why do crosses burn them?" she counters, hands on hips and looking rather smug for a twelve year old girl.
"Those were the crosses of old," he says, "made by the hands of the pure and with silver. When the silver was heated and formed into a cross, it was holy water they used to cool it down."
"Oh, and what is the difference now?"
"Now, even the most sinful of men can make them, they are no longer made of silver. Now, they are cooled down with only water."
Sakura stole a glance at the church down the street; the cross that stood atop the roof had always looked foreboding to her.
Bleeding
She finds a trail of fresh blood on the broken cobblestone streets she always haunts and she follows it, against her better judgment.
She finds him sitting down, hair loose and spilled over his shoulders like ink. He is so pale she was almost sure he was dead, so she sits in front of him and traces his face with her dirty fingers.
'Angel.' She says.
He opens his red eyes and smiles at the girl with the pink hair before him, a dirty little thing covered in soot and scabs and with eyes that are the color of sin and envy.
When he speaks, she notices that he isn't injured at all, the only thing that bleeds are his lips with blood that is not his own.
'No,' he rectifies, 'Devil'
She only bites her lips and stares at the man and says, 'Vampire.'
He nods and rests his head against the wall.
He'll wake up before the sun does.
Indulgence
Twenty silvers a piece, they tell her, twenty silvers a piece.
First you confess and then you pray.
And then you get absolution.
If you don't, they hiss, you go to hell.
She wonders if maybe she is the only one who sees a false man, the priest with the gray eyes and the dark hair.
Shouting about and telling the wicked stories of fear that he spins.
She watches them, hurrying to him. Those women with the pristine white bonnets with the gray dresses and the slicked hair men in vests and canes, Watching as they give money to the tables and wait for their sins to be taken away with the piece of paper that the priest gives them.
A spider, she thinks, spinning and wrapping its web around the victims, tightly, ever so tightly, never letting go.
Lies
She doesn't notice him behind her, and shudders when his hand meets her shoulder.
She watches him watch her, with eyes red as the blood he drank, face pale and as cold as moonlight.
"It's all lies", he says. His hair is tied into a low ponytail, not spilling over his shoulders like that night she met him.
He dresses like an aristocrat; sharp and intimidating.
"God," he starts, red eyes shifting into onyx dark, "does not exchange forgiveness for money."
She nods and tries to look away.
She can't.
He finally fades away into shadows and the air turns warmer with his departure.
Proper
She watches him watch her with eyes that look like coal.
'Hello,' she says no smiles, no curtsies, she wasn't raised like that. Just a dirty extended arm sprinkled with bruises and cuts waiting for a handshake.
He nods hello and tells her that ladies curtsy; only men shake hands with each other.
She shrugs and sits beside him, shoulders arched and skinny pale arms hugging her knees.
He tells her that young sit with straight back, knees slightly bent, feet on the ground with one ankle over the other.
She tells him that he knows a lot about feminine customs and asks him if maybe, 'are you a woman dressed as a man?'
He only stares at her and gets up to leave, but not without telling her that, "Proper young ladies, wear more conservative dresses."
She looked down to her own dress, torn and frayed at the end; dirty and ending a few inches above the knees.
Her shoulders were exposed, and it showed a good amount of skin.
Her cheeks turned pink, and she felt angry.
"Proper young men," she spat, viridian eyes staring straight at his retreating back, "don't drink the blood of other people!"
Bleed pretty
"You look like you'd bleed pretty."
She turns around and the look of panic seeps into her face and she feels the night air grow dank with sin. The man looks young and unshaven, looks delirious and sane at the same time. The glint of the dull metal in his hand makes her shiver and she feels a little afraid.
The knife in his hand is stained with blood.
"I bet you bleed pretty." he repeats.
She turns to run but he grabs her, dirty nails breaking into the skin of her shoulder and burying them deep.
"Let go!-" The cold blade dances on her throat and movement is forgotten. "Please," she whispered in voice she can't recognize, "please let me go..."
His hand dances around her thigh, pinching and bruising and she cries; feeling dirty and filthy and God, just let him kill me...
She could feel the stubble of his chin on her neck and sloppy wet kisses trail against her jaw.
"Please..." she begged through tears, trying to throw the man off, only to have the knife pressed harder against her throat for her efforts."...please, stop!"
She closed her eyes shut as his hand squeeze her inner thigh, and bit back a scream when he bit her breast through the thin cloth of her dress.
"Please stop..." she kept her eyes closed and continued to cry, god, please make it stop...
She felt him stop, his hands still on her body but no longer continuing their assault on her form and drop the knife, letting it fall a few inches away from her bruised hips.
She let out a shaky breath and watched as he stood up and backed a few feet away. She looked down, not wanting to see face and tried to sit up, ready to get up and run.
The man fell before her, blood pooling at her feet and his knife forgotten on the dirty ground. she almost expects to see the man with the inky hair and the red eyes and is surprised to see the priest, the one with the empty gray eyes and the dark hair and-
He has a bloody heart in his hand.
Her scream dies in her throat and is replaced with the urge to throw up.
"Is the little lamb lost?" he licked his dry lips and raked her form with his eyes. His gray dismal eyes flashed a hypnotizing purple. Her legs froze and the urge to run was lost.
She felt the frigid air grab at her legs; the earth beneath her legs shifted made her fall to her knees while bits of broken cobblestone ripped at her arms and face.
"The little lamb is scared..." he smiled a dreadful smile and licked the blood pumping organ, spilling blood onto his face and misting drops of the crimson liquid on to her own.
She could see the little wisps warm fog rise above the spilt crimson and watched sickly as they dispersed into the sky. She stared as he continued to devour the sickly red organ, his face becoming contorted with every bite.
His once white teeth were stained scarlet; bits of flesh protruding from each crevice. Thin lips smiled as he watched her gasp for air that would not come.
"How would the blood of a lamb taste?"He struck out and pierced her chest and—
Sakura woke up screaming, legs tangled in soft sheets and warm blankets.
Her skin glistened white with sweat in the pale moonlight. Her pink hair clung to her sweaty face, and her nails dug into the side of her arms. She checked her chest for the gaping hole she was sure was there and found none; Only tiny specks of blood and a delicate fresh scab that stretched above her left breast.
There was a lit candle on the small table beside her, casting shadows under her eyes and making her appear as if she had been deprived of sleep for centuries. The stone room is slightly less cold than the world outside and she is suddenly very aware of the dark.
She is alone a room full with shadows that move as the flame on the candle dances. She is clean and dressed in clothes that are not her own and she hurts a little less everywhere.
Its only when her gaze rests on the dark corner of the room that she suddenly realizes that she is not alone.
Itachi comes towards her, dressed in a starless midnight sky and his shadow ink hair spilt over his shoulder, holding a very familiar blade stained with blood.
Suddenly, her chest begins to hurt.
So, this is a two-shot, itasaku, you know the whole drill.
It's AU, Alternative Universe for those that don't know, I'm thinking set in somewhere in England 1860's?
Read review, tell me if you liked it, if you didn't and what to fix.
This story was up a long time ago, except that my friends accidently deleted it when I asked her to delete the Stalker story...she ended up deleting all my stories, but thats okay, I was able to rewrite most of them on my own and was able to edit some stuff.
Like I said, Please read and review.