Of course I thought it was eerie. Just absolutely, plainly eerie. How his presence never failed, he was always outside my door, waiting. Exactly midnight, every night, for the past what – three months? At the crack of dawn; he was gone, like a breeze.
I didn't know why he was there. He just was. A frozen part of me almost reassured me with a promise of insanity – was I going insane? If I gathered enough courage, and perhaps even touched him – would he respond at all? Does he even exist anymore?
Another part of me held a sense of protection. I was used to him almost guarding my door; I would be shocked to see if even for one day, he wasn't there. Sitting on the stone steps, glaring at the ground, waiting for the sun to rise. And when it did, he stood up, and left. Always with a flower in hand; my flowers.
I noticed with amusement he liked roses.
I never questioned why he was there. I wasn't scared of him at all. If I drank, heavily, and couldn't find a difference between the ceiling and the floor– he would only give me a cold glare, push me inside my bedroom and gently pull the covers over my head. There was always a glass of water and aspirin on my bedside table by morning.
Walking into my house, his past – his memories – why didn't it bring anything back? Why could he only remember me, and nobody else, or anything by that matter, even himself?
But, I knew everything about him. He was tall, his face was pointed in sharp, attractive features – his eyes were pitch black. They were dark; they never smiled. His expression was always set in a default, completely stoic and devoid of any emotion. Unless of course, it was to glare at me.
He always glared at me. It was an accomplishment, surely – even to attract a flick of emotion – was some feat, wasn't it? I made him feel something.
Maybe it was a loss. Maybe he wasn't supposed to be there. But if he were to wander, reality would always lead him here. I don't know where he was in the daytime. Lying in a creaking coffin, I suppose, like those vampires in an old age movie. Who knows, maybe every time he left, he disappeared into nothingness.
He was gone. But he always came back. It left me to wonder – what about when it was my turn, to take a rose from the garden? Would he still come? Or walk beside me, waiting for the sun to rise, in front of my own front door?
"Sasuke," I whispered quietly. "Kiss me."
He looked away, into the rose bushes. He didn't bother heeding warning. In seconds, his lips were desperately crushed against mine. My back hit the floor, with a muffled thump.
I was cursed, blessed. Purely haunted.
I loved it when he said my name.
"Naruto," he said breathlessly, "I can't go."
I smiled sadly. "You'll have to, eventually." I closed the door in his eyes. His black, emotionless eyes. Before the last ray of streetlight disappeared, I noticed a lone streak of tears training down his ivory skin.
Locking the door securely, my back slid against the door. Hands caging my face, I sobbed. On the other side, he cried.
Quietly.
Maybe I was right, maybe I was wrong. There's some things you can never escape. It'll always find you in the end.
I was bleeding. Drops of crimson trailed down my legs, staining my skin a sickly pink. I completely ignored his pleads to let him in. I didn't bother opening the door. He was by my side in seconds, frustrated, tearing through cabinets.
In minutes, thick gauze was tightly wrapped around my stomach. It stung, so badly. He sat silently, looking at my pathetic, broken form. Not glaring. Merely looking, for now.
"The sixth time," He said softly. "You have to stop."
"No. Leave me be, Sasuke."
He flinched at the mention of his name. His mild expression horrifically morphed into one of pure, deep anger – he got up from the tiled floor of the bathroom, and fiercely clutched my shirt collar.
Teardrops hit my cheek.
"Don't you dare, Uzumaki." I wasn't scared. He let me go; I dropped into the floor with an undignified thump. I didn't bother asking him to come back. He always did. Carrying me to my bedroom, he laid my down, and covered me with blankets and kisses.
"Be here tonight. Please."
"Okay."
I was always a fine liar.
I heard a faint knocking. Slowly, the knocking got fainter, and fainter, until my eyes were clouded with white.
Everything was white. I heard his voice, still.
"You baka," he sobbed, "I told you not to."
It couldn't go on forever. I had to stop it.
I just wish I could.
Sasuke Uchiha, died at the age of nineteen. It was said that every night, at midnight precisely, his ghost was spotted on the stone steps.
Naruto Uzumaki, died at the age of eighteen. Suicide.
I know, I know. I'm so horrible.
I started writing this at like 12AM last night, and had no idea where it was going.
This is my first post.
Listening to : Old Yellow Bricks by Arctic Monkeys.
Disclaimer : yeah I don't own it, blah blah blah who cares shuddap
/./signouttttttt.
© scandalousss