Hello! I'd like to thank you all for letting me know what you think of my writing style. Taking all of them into consideration, I think the best decision at this time would be option 3 (toning it down). I'll try to make it as understandable as I can, and should you readers express further confusion, I will revise it once again I apologize, AP English gets to me and I do get carried away with the symbolism/metaphor and whatnot. So I will tone it down without being so blunt. Thank you again, some of you have been so encouraging
Chapter 11 – He waited.
"Thoughts"
Flashback
Disgrace.
He didn't understand why, but he could not find it in himself to avoid looking at the mirror. It was that damned human curiosity; he simply could not avoid it. What was it that drove him to do so? To torture himself with the haunting reflection?
Was it the suspicion? The anxiety?
For surely he could see it: the uncanny resemblance, the growing familiarity, the mounting similarities. There was no mistaking it, denying it, avoiding it. He had to have seen it.
But no. All he saw was his own visage, throwing back its rigid head in manic laughter— neck cracking grotesquely, the depthless eyes of murk that only widened with the laughter. It was a deep, throaty laugh, but there was a remnant of shrillness that bled his ears.
Just like old times. "You always laughed at me…without moving a single muscle."
The wrinkles. When had he gotten those wrinkles? And right below the eyes…outlining his perfectly thin nose. They were still faint, but they were unmistakably there.
And his hair…when had it gotten so long? So long he could nearly gather it in a loose rubber band. In a low ponytail, in fact, the stupid kind he despised so much. Despised the most. Long so his bangs had gathered on either side of his face. Leaving a wide open target. Right between the eyes, go north, and there it was; the bluish-white skin that looked permanently bruised.
Why had he let it happen?
…Why hadn't he noticed?
Time. Subtle changes over time…funny how you never notice the changes until you're beyond recognition.
It disgusted him. The bitter taste of disdain filled his mouth, and he sank it down as he ravaged his drawers for it: a rusty silver blade shining in the bathroom lights.
This rusty razor blade – it had been placed in this drawer for a very different reason. Very different, indeed.
A same cause, though, all the same.
He slashed, oh he slashed. How often he had imagined doing so, at precisely measured locations. How wonderful, glorious it would be, he thought. The fanfare, the bright lights, the flashing heartsblood. Splatter. Flash. Beautiful flash. The red, the cuts, the slash, the lines of actions. Decisions, calculated, organized and ready.
How different it turned out to be. There would be no attraction; no witness drawn by the brilliant display. It was not planned, calculated, prepared.
It was better.
So much so, in fact.
The spontaneity, the raw, uncontrived reactions. Fistfuls he grabbed at a time, sawing away with the long razor. The black stubs flew erratically, piercing into his skin as he hacked like a lunatic.
Panting, he stopped, watching the black spikes fly up into the air, feeling his cease of energy and falling back to the earth. As did he.
The mirror, obscured by bits of hair and fog from his labored breath showed…nothing. Nothing at all. Not a thing.
Just the way he liked it.
Fluffing up his hair, brushing away any stray bits, he got dressed and ran out the door with an extra bounce in his step. Now even Sasuke wasn't ignorant – he knew well enough how attractive he was. But Sasuke figured it was high time his exterior matches his insides, so he was hardly the check-hair-before-school type of guy.
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It's a curious concept, this thing called hope.
Like when you stumble into the kitchen with a raging appetite. You open the refrigerator, and it's positively packed, but with nothing to eat. So you close the door, wander about, poke around in the pantry. And five minutes later you're facing the open door yet again, hoping that in those brief moments, something edible had magically appeared. …Why?
Was it the glacial air, brushing against your cheeks in cold reality?
Who knew. Hinata didn't.
Because if she did, maybe she could have saved herself from the pain and prevented herself from it. Hoping – it did no good. It was wind that lifted you high into the heavens, kept you suspended in midair, only to deteriorate and send you down crashing to your brutal death.
Every single time.
Even during the interviews, so many years ago. The visits from all those happy, unfortunate couples. They would watch, secretively, and all eyes would always be drawn to her. She was, after all, the perfect child: a portrait of innocence, youth, and whimsical beauty.
Despite the caretaker's insistence, they would demand an interview. And it was just train wrecks after that. She was surprised she had lived after so many.
"So, Hinata, how old are you?"
…
"You're such a cute little girl, aren't you?"
…
"…Won't you say anything? Why won't she speak?"
"Hinata…is just shy. She's had a very rough time…"
"Oh…dear, well, we're not sure if we can accommodate for her, well, needs. We were hoping for someone…bright. Cheerful. Oh, that little boy!"
Then they would look closer, and recoil from the sadness in her eyes.
They would smile, politely, uncomfortably, and Hinata would watch them select an uglier, happier child.
She should've learned then, but finally the day had come. Of course she was nervous, but above all, she had been hopeful. Perhaps she could learn to adjust, she thought. Perhaps this would be her chance to change.
From across the room, Sakura saw her, saw through her, pretending to see nothing. Hinata would've believed her, if it hadn't been for the severed pencil halves in her hand.
And this morning, she had been by her locker like every other day since.
Since he had become her keeper.
When had it been established? That he would wait for her there?
Never. That's when.
…
…Why was that so hard to accept?
That was it. Somewhere in between her feeble mind, she had developed a crutch. Now with it gone…would she stumble and fall? Again?
How could she let this happen? Again! She should have known. She-
-flinched as something collided with the back of her head. Hinata bent over to pick up…a pencil? She picked it up, and sat back up-
-to find herself face to face with a boy. He had tousled, bed-head-esque hair. It was messy, beautifully so, and it hung into his eyes. It was bold, it was jagged, it was so…boyish. It was…
Sasuke.
With an air of mild annoyance about him, Hinata was struck with a revolution – she was hit with clarity, so much in the fashion of the cold refrigerator air. Perhaps, possibly, quite apparently:
He had been there. Waiting.
And she hadn't seen him.
Sasuke, he seemed…different. Upon close inspection, she was shocked to discover that his hairstyle wasn't very different – it was simply shorter. Manlier.
As he stood before her, crouched so they were eyelevel, she felt a slightly nauseating stir. It was something – something cold, and it left her with clarity.
This time, refrigerator door in hand, she had happened upon something new inside. As the cold air hit her face, she felt the light pour into the hollows of her face.
He had waited.
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Walking in the hallways:
It was a tunnel. A long, dark tunnel. The kind where the distance transcends reason, thought, probability. Where the light at the end is but a mere speck, barely thought out in conception.
The light…she had grown to fear this light.
And she walked with slow steps, he beside her. She should have rushed. Should have ran, from the way they stared.
They stared like they had the right to. That they had to right to know her truths, without knowing her at all.
Maybe she was surrendering – take me now, vultures, feed upon the remnants of my humanity.
Yet she felt another stare. Only it was entirely different, in that he stared as if he wanted the right to know, so he could discover the truths.
..Did it make all the difference?
Still, they reached the light at the end – the end of the cave.
The stare that sought to know her – it looked her way, waiting, before pushing open the door.
To think it was only a day ago – she was in this very building, but the circumstances were oh so different.
As he led her to a table, far off to the corner and away from the spotlight, he envied her.
It was good, though. At least she didn't have to fear the awful things being said of her. She didn't have to stand by as her ears bled from they mortal wounds inflicted upon them. Now, if only someone would be so kind as to come and blind her.
Then she would really be safe.
From them, their stares, and their evil eyes.
Slowly, she sat down, and stared at her tray. And it stared happily back without saying a word, which was just what she wanted. But she could still feel it, that stare. And it looked at her with confusion, so she could stare no more.
Her pale hand encased the apple, and she brought it closer to her peachy lips, shyly taking a nibble out of it.
A small, dark-haired child reached into her backpack, pulling out a tiny red apple, even smaller than her bite-sized fist.
Delighted, the child clapped her hands before her, holding the bright red fruit theatrically before her. She closed her eyes and tilted her head, placing her free hand to her heart. Lowering her voice many octaves, she voiced, "Flower of this purple dye, Hit with Cupid's archery, Sink in apple of his eye."(1)
Clearly, the action in itself was entirely spontaneous, and she had not intended for it to be audible. If fact, she had not intended to do it at all! Naturally, the girl had a very quiet voice. So quiet, in fact, that only one individual had heard her.
She placed the apple back into her bag, taking out her notebook (her original reason for opening her bag). As she flipped through the pages, a smile still etched onto her round face, she squirmed uncomfortably, furrowing her brows
As she turned her head to the left, her suspicions were confirmed as the smile deteriorated and was replaced with the flush of shame and embarrassment.
A young boy stared at with a look of perpetual confusion and bafflement. His hand still grasped the pen, taking notes with a life of its own, but his face did not leave hers. She tried to think of anything to excuse her sudden outburst, but opted instead to cover her cheeks, trying to conceal the growing flames within them. Decidedly ignoring his presence, she buried herself into her notebook, scribbling away about stocks, taxes, and income revenue.
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She took one final bite, letting the fruitless core drop onto her tray. He stared, he stared, but she could not seem to meet his gaze. Forced to settle for the smooth top of her forehead, he listened to her silence and could not seem to hear an answer.
"…Do you see me, Hinata?"
"…Do you see me now?"
"…'Cause I see you."
"Hyuga Hinata."
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1. This is a quote from Shakespeares play: A Midsummer Night's Dream.
How was that for toning down? Let me know!