A/N: Sometimes, I wonder if writing angst means I have childhood traumas.

I

You're afraid now.

("W-what did you say, you freak?!"

"I ̶ I don't…! I'm s-sorry!"

"She said, 'fuck off.' Here, let me say it again so you might listen this time; fuck off. Please.")

You know that I'm here and he knows that I'm here, so he watches you like he's never done before. You're both delighted ̶ (look at him, taking notice of you) ̶ and despaired ̶ (he's looking at you; but he's looking for me) ̶ because the attention he gives you is too much to handle. It gains the attention of others and that's never been a good thing for you.

(It doesn't matter. He doesn't matter. They don't matter.)

I want you to focus on me; on fixing the discordance within yourself before you go off fantasising. The gap only grows larger the longer we're apart, you have to understand. You've lost sight of something you've never found but already had, regardless.

You're losing yourself, and you don't know how to get yourself back because you've never even known who you are in the first place. You're more absolutely terrified than merely afraid and that's okay. It's scary, especially when you're little more than half a decade old.

(I have no age. No name. No life. I want to stop existing. But I don't get what I want. Aren't we so very alike?)

. . .

. . .

"It seems to be an intense form of Dissociative Identity Disorder," the medic-nin announces, cutting off the chakra flow from his fingers and looking to your parents as they stand behind you.

Your mother gasps, horrified. Influenced by her reaction, you yourself become horrified because you don't understand what Dissociative Identity Disorder is. Surely, your mother does. (Your mother doesn't know. She doesn't know a lot of things.)

You stare at the medic-nin, whose glasses hang loosely off his nicely sculpted nose and it captures your attention. The light reflecting off them is pretty. "I've honestly… never seen anything like it. It's much different than the common forms of DID in the sense that this second personality ̶ otherwise known as the alter ̶ is active alongside the primary personality," he explains, as light eyes with an indiscernible colour ̶ (beige, probably) ̶ slide over to you with a speculative glint.

"How do you know?" your father asks, his voice smooth and neutral as though he's unruffled by such devastating news. The implications hurt your heart.

It's a front. He's a ninja. Ninja aren't meant to reveal their vulnerabilities and someone has to be the calm one in this situation. Obviously, your mother is out of the question. (Stop being so goddamn sensitive, Sakura. Why do you have to be like this?)

"As you know, spiritual chakra and physical chakra are separated in the head and the chest until they're merged in the centre of the stomach. Sakura-chan's spiritual chakra has branched off and is creating its own waves to reveal an active thought process. However, it's hard to detect and there's a type of disconnection between the two identities. Likely, the alter is watching through Sakura-chan's eyes at this very moment but is currently unable to control the main body."

How strange it is to be acknowledged as an existence. It's extremely anomalous. (It hurts. I don't want to be here. Am I supposed to be happy about this?)

"So how do we get rid of the second personality?" your mother demands, and I'm surprisingly offended that she speaks of me as if I'm a pest; a virus to be culled. (I shouldn't be. I am a virus of sorts.) "Before it takes over our Sakura-chan and wears her skin like… Like some kind of puppet!"

(I laugh. I can't hear it. You can, though, and it terrifies you. It terrifies me.)

The medic-nin blinks, a swirl of conflicted emotions clear in his eyes before he frowns down at you and your clenched fist. It's bleeding. You only notice now, gasping in surprise and terror because you didn't do that.

He breathes out a tired sigh as he procures some antiseptic and bandages to tend to the wound you've made. (The wound I've made? Oh, god.)

"Haruno-san… This alter is another facet of your daughter's psyche, with thoughts and feelings of their ̶ likely her ̶ own," he explains, tending to your hand with almost unnaturally gentle care. "DID usually occurs because of some kind of emotional stress in an effort to cope within a volatile environment. Forgive me, but is there…" He trails off for a moment, using one finger to push up his glasses. "Are there problems at home?"

He's suitably discomforted. It's a personal question and it's clear that he already has an inkling as to what life is like for you at home. Perhaps not the worst of environments ̶ (they care, for all their fumbling, and he sees that) ̶ but neither is it the best type for a child to grow up in.

You hear your mother scoff, offended at the implications of such a query. "Are you honestly suggesting that it's our fault that she's developed such a worrying mental illness?" she demands. You don't dare to turn her way and see the expression on her face.

Your heart constricts. The room feels oppressive. I can hear you mutter things from the crevices of your mind ̶ ("It's their fault, it's theirs! I just want them to be happy! I just want to be happy!") ̶ before you abruptly attempt to shove the associated emotions into my area. As you do.

I intentionally push it away and ensure that you hold onto that feeling. You tense as you realise that I can make you miserable.

(I just want you to be happy, too. I just want you to be okay.)

"They argue," I hear myself mutter with your voice, once again noticeably lowered and dull. (I hate it.) The room stills. "They argue about who she should be; how she should be; what she should be… She doesn't know what to do because she doesn't want either of them to unhappy with her. It's ruining her."

It's me who turns and meets the medic-nin's eyes. I control your body and it's ̶ it's hell. I'm not used to this, to being alive, even if it's only for a moment or two. I feel your heart beating like a drum within your ribcage and it's petrifying.

(It tingles. Your body tingles and I feel it and it hurts. I want to throw up. I want to die. But I don't even know what it means to be alive. How can I die if I'm not alive? Why? Why? Why does it have to be like this?)

There's intrigue, wonder and pity in his eyes of beige ̶ (Sasuke looks at you with intrigue and wonder, but there is no pity to be found. Not for you) ̶ because he can see the difference between us. He forms a soft, kind smile that is meant to be disarming. I can't help but distrust it. (Your smiles are like that. I always hope that the mirror cracks whenever you smile upon its surface.)

"Who might you be?" queries the medic-nin, his curiosity genuine, as though I'm meant to have a name of my own. As if that wouldn't separate us even more than we already are.

I don't answer; instead, I return your body to you so that you may cry in anguish.

Now, your bullies have more things to harass you with. They have something more concrete than the fact that your hair is pink; that your forehead is a little bigger than average; that you're painfully shy and kind to a fault.

Now… You really are a freak because you have another entity ̶ (an entity that is a part of you. It disgusts you. That hurts, you know) ̶ that corrupts your body like a parasite; one that can take control at any moment.

(You cry. You are quiet in your sobs but loud in your sorrow. They see. They care.

I scream. You ignore me, and no one else can hear.)

. . .

. . .

You don't want to accept me. I am the ugliest parts of you that you despise; surely, accepting me would make you a terrible person. (It would make you whole. It would make us whole. That's a good thing.)

The appointments that are meant to bridge the gap between us are fruitless. (They can't help you if you don't try.) Your diet and your sleeping schedule are quickly degrading because you feel sick every time you try to eat something. Worry gnaws at your insides at the idea of me taking control of your body when you manage to fall asleep. (It's alright. You don't have to go to school in the mornings, anyway. Not for a while. No one will miss you.)

Further and further, you separate us. Don't you understand that widening the gap between us is a bad thing? (For fuck sake! You idiot! Why the fuck are you so usele ̶ ) It's immensely frustrating. (My bad. I apologise. I'm sorry. I'm sorry. I didn't mean to lash out.)

It's funny, you know; your unadulterated fear of me only makes it easier to wear your skin as my own. I'm not entirely sure how. ("Try not to focus so much on your fears. You only give them more power that way because you subconsciously ignore everything else that you don't already expect to come true. Understand?")

It makes me sound like some kind of monster haunting you in the night, doesn't it? Feeding on your fear to strengthen myself. I'm not a monster, Sakura. (I'm you.)

Everyone who cares is trying to help you. Your mother, who disdains my existence almost as much as I do, tries to help by cooking your favourite meals and assuring you that you're not what's wrong. (Nori-san says that she has to accept both of us. She's promised to try. Of course, it's a lie.) Your father, who tries to help by taking your mind off of the DID dilemma. Meditation, stamina training, ninja trivia, etc. You've inherited his superb chakra control, but not his grit. (Meditation helps you hear me better, so you whimper and tremble every time he asks you to do it. A true warrior, aren't you?)

Nori-san is trying and he's little more than an acquaintance. It's his job, of course, but it's clear that he's genuine in his desire to help. He gives you the option to open up to him, to talk to him about things you'd never tell anyone else. He tries to make you feel like you are worth something; he tries to tell you that you're not a freak but a kind girl who needs help with finding herself.

You don't listen. You know that Nori-san and I have the same ideas on how to make you better; somehow, you've managed to convince yourself that I've successfully manipulated the nice medic-nin and so you can't listen to anything he says because they're lies. No matter how much they make sense or how sincere he is.

(I think you like wallowing in your own self-pity, sometimes. I think, in some unhealthy fashion, you like the idea of being broken. Maybe you're the kind of person who is suffering and wants help but does nothing when you finally get it. On and on, the cycle goes. Right?)

Ah, but I suppose I can't blame you entirely. We both know how your mother feels about me, and we both know how much you look up to her. ("That thing inside her is an abomination! Like some grotesque, sentient form of cancer! Shut up, Kizashi, that thing isn't my daughter no matter what you say!")

Now, she can't even touch you without looking into your eyes and trying to see if I'm watching her through you. Like I'm not a part of you, warped and disjointed as I may be.

(Please, tell her to stop. Please.)

There's only so much I can take before I destroy the remains of your existence and wear your skin as my own. You don't understand how empty of an existence that would ̶ (will) ̶ be. I don't want that, and neither do you.

(But you're deaf to my pleas. Nothing has changed.)

I

A/N: I've researched Dissociative Identity Disorder but I'm not an expert, so I apologise if I butcher things with my ignorance and/or creative liberties. (Also, sassy Sasuke is sassy and it's kind of cute. To me, anyway.)

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