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From his vantage point in the tree, Kakashi couldn't see clearly what the chuunin was doing in his bedroom, not could he see the contents of the box. He did see the flash of fire and the ignited end of a cigarette. He crept closer, trying to angle himself so the moon didn't glance off the window, but let him see through it.
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He drew a deep breath from the object in his mouth, holding the smoke in his lungs for as long as he could without asphyxiating himself, before letting it out in a rush as he gasped for oxygen. He reached into the pillowcase behind him and let his hand close around the comforting cold of the object he knew would always be there to help him. He drew it out.
It was beautiful, cold, hard and supportive. Always there for him, always a help, never complaining no matter how much it was abused. The cold steel a reminder of his past, his present and his future, a reminder of the hurt he had received at the end of this knife. Ironic, how the knife which had hurt him, now brought him the most comfort.
He took another drag on the joint and ran a finger down the edge of the blade. It needed cleaning, but now that wasn't his priority. He placed the tip against the inside of his arm and drew it slowly across the tan skin. As the blood welled up, some of the tension inside him released. He felt lighter, free, unburdened. He was in control this time. It came down again, slightly below the first cut, slicing through an already present scar, another weight lifted from his shoulders. He lay back against the pillow, the knife in one hand, held downwards by the hilt, the sharp point resting on his stomach, just above his belly button. He pressed down, hard. A flash of pain assaulted him, quickly followed by numbing relief and a feeling of twisted pleasure, addictive and deadly. A gasp escaped him as he drew it swiftly across the quivering toned muscles, the pressure lessening as the pain became more pronounced. The sudden desire to hurt himself overcame everything else, all pain erased, all thoughts dulled as the blade slashed into his arm again and again, shallow cuts, short, yet intense. The red perfect, his life in his hands, his very existence at the mercy of this beautiful weapon. Beautiful, yet deadly. He could do it. He could do it now, end everything, the pain, the hurt, the mental facade. He had the power to do it, but not the courage.
The knife clattered to the floor as he dropped it, stubbing out the sweet drug on the inside of his elbow and falling asleep, still in his shinobi pants, blood trickling sluggishly from his arms, faster from his stomach.
