#2: The Lighthouse


The Lighthouse stares into you, and it lurks in the background.

It makes Sakura anxious.

She sees them part, bidding their farewells. While the wind mumbles—it always, always mumbles, never dies, not even after the chaotic death of the rain—and Sakura enters the house, the old wood squeaks under her feet. It's an eerie sensation. First, the wood is old and in good condition considering the remarkable life it has held, but it's always cold, an odd and unexplainable sensation of touching barefoot dry water.

She enters the house and walks slow, slow, slow. She touches the walls, as in trying to hold herself steady, as in trying to reassure herself that there is no wrong within this tiny part of the universe. She tries to convince herself. She grabs the walls while walking for her to feel, hear, suffer her heart in a continuous, loud, torturing thump, thump, thump. Her chest aches the slightest, but it does. There's an unnerving silence.

She walks, and walks, and walks. It feels eternal. There's an unreachable, unexplainable, indescribable distance among every object, among every breath held, among every step. It feels as if you walk, and walk, and walk—and what is there to answer you if not distance? You never reach anything, never arrive anywhere, never go past anything—but then, she has already walked to the dining-room door.

The doors are too big, too nosy, too loud. They slide, and oh when they slide. Sakura feels her eardrums explode, her chest rise up and down up and down, up and down, upanddown

They are too loud. This early morning, when she opens them, she desperately, anxiously, scaredly moves her hands up and down in an attempt to… to… to—

To what?

The noise is still obnoxiously, ridiculously, dangerously loud—she fears it might awake him. The sound shall be described as a disturbance for it to go beyond loud. It's rough, vociferous—makes Sakura cheek everywhere to see who has heard it, which hazards have awoken due to the noise. Of course, in the house, there are only two… to see which hazards have awoken due to the noise.

She slides the door so cautiously next time it takes her some good thirty seconds to do it thoroughly, and every second, she feels her ribcage explode. Cold sweat forms on her forehead, even if it's early morning and the freezing rain has left them frigid and almost shivering. It took her some good thirty seconds to close, but if you had seen with what caution—with what foresight—with what dissimulation—she closed that door!

The hallways… are pretty nosy. Sakura walks them with caution, for them to stare back. You see, those are so odd, so bizarre, they linger in you. As soon as she enters the hallways, Sakura feels the immense heaviness impregnate her; as she walks them, she experiences a suffocating feeling of unease, an enormous sense of dread, and curiosity.

You walk those hallways as one walks over shattered glass, and in exchange, the hallways poke heavier. The vast covered windows of the hallway make her anxious. Sakura feels her back bare, naked, burning with the aching of penetrating eyes piercing her back, and immediately, she feels a deep shiver run down her spine and melts to the ground in a wet puddle. Sakura feels her feet moist. All the hairs on the back of her neck stand on end, and she stops abruptly, her head thumping mercilessly with loud, indiscrete blood.

She stares at the door of his bedroom.

The wind mumbles.

The Lighthouse stares into you.


Sakura sees them leave. Far, far they go—freedom. Except Sakura is not captive and this is not a cage and much less punishment. If such was the case, then it would be an auto-imposed one.

She thinks about Shikamaru. Kakashi. Sasuke. Shikamaru—should have asked him to tell her kaasan something. Her otosan also deserves something. Somethingwhat? An apology? For what?; a goodbye? Why?; an epitaph? For her, please. No. No. She sees them leave and she is sure, she knows, she will part too. Maybe not tomorrow, very unlikely this first month, but one day, she'll leave. Her otosan will greet her with dango, and her okasan will scold them for eating too much sugar. Sakura will do things right. Sakura will go back home more often, will stop spending so many nights and days melted into work, Sakura will spend more time with her parents. When she comes back with a recovered (if she comes back with a recovered—no, we already talked about that) Sasuke, she will go back happily to her house. Will have proven herself.

Her okasan, her otosan. She likes their dango. Not precisely the tastiest one, but it's familiar—comes from family, from a house persistent through the years of misfortunes, and an ungrateful daughter. Her home smells sweet. The hands of her kaasan are bruised with sugar powder and excellent hands for decoration; the hands of her otosan are gloved by flour. Don't you know that's why she is called Sakura? Her kaasan said she would have liked to have a flower shop. But Sakura's hair had been indulgent—I want a flower shop, for our daughter, she said; but don't you see Sakura-chan hair?, he giggled. Mebuki understood little. Sakura was… Sakura: petal-pink hair and a growing bud in hopes to bloom; Kizashi had another concept of their daughter: cotton-candy-pink hair, and sweet enough to make you smile the happiest possible. And the Yamanaka already had a flower shop.

Yeah, her home is sweet. Gentle. She loves it. Spent an awfully long time out of it, too. She loves her parents. She wants to go back to her parents. Her house is radiant, sweet, comforting; the Lighthouse, Sasuke, they are monstrous, cold, cruel. Pink and blue, if you will. Here, almost trapped, she is brutally reminded of how easy is to crush this gentle and gracious bloom. This house is a brutal reminder of how much she wasted her years poured into work. What would happen if she was to... die? Wouldn't it be awful if she died and her parents were to be robbed of spending more time with their daughter? But she was first, committed the deed firsthand. At least, this growing uneasiness reminds her too of how much she loves her parents. What is not true, deep-rooted and intense love if not the one we never appreciate when enjoying near but understand when far away, or in the pits of uncertainty? Oh, should have told them; oh, should have been better; oh, I'm sorry…

And now she's here. With… him. She wants to have a dango with her parents.

The first thing Sakura does after finally changing is to make an inventory of all her supplies.

The kitchen has an extra door leading to a small cubicle that now lies mostly empty. She counts canned food, fruit, vegetables, and everything she was sent along with. Supplies won't be sent with what she has counted until next month. Of course, there's extra food, some of what she has brought to not make them go tight, some from the previous nurse.

No—Yamaguchi Kaori.

She has a name, Sakura remembers. And, she had a family, someone to look after, someone that looked after her—a life. Sakura can't stop but feel sorry for her. An unnamable feeling of dread, of guilt—if I had… if I were…. All useless babbling from Sakura. Maybe, maybe if she had decided earlier, Kaori would still be there, with her family, alive and happy. But then, wouldn't that apply to the other ill-fated women dead before Kaori? Sakura names this unnamable dread: guilt.

Maybe she would have died. What would her parents have done in the hearings of their daughter's death? One never recovers from such tragedies, her okasan had taught her. Sakura had greeted death much before one expected—hey kid, why are you drinking? You're not old enough! But one's always old enough to slaughter but never, never old enough to live as an adult. Still, death in the hospital weighed heavily.

Ino's cries pierce her ears.

And Sakura feels guilty. All those missing pieces from a more giant puzzle, rawly stripped from those pieces much before than expected, than prepared.

But because Sakura knows this guilt will lead nowhere, she decides to not think about it.

Sakura never got to experience Sasuke that much. They are several years apart, a "friend" disguised under the amiable term of such, but honestly, how much do they know each other? They are years asunder—for that, she doesn't know when he rises. The nurses' diary never explained when; still, not like they would allow Sakura to see those diaries. They are restrained. It must be past 6 in the morning, maybe already 7—she really should have brought a clockwork—and she decides to check on him.

The hallways poke holes in Sakura's back when she walks to Sasuke's room. She knocks on the door, but when he never responds, it dissolves into a trick question to simply knock. She enters the room, expecting him to be asleep, maybe awake. Her palms sweat.

"Sasuke-kun…" It feels deranged to ask him any other question.

She sees his chest rise up and down in a harmonious dance, almost imperceptible, almost too real, but his breath is constrained, calculated, paced with a methodical rhythm. He is, if something, faking to sleep; if not, he is just awake and refusing to open his eyes. Maybe he's trying to avoid her. Does he feel trapped too? And Sakura shudders. Two uneasy lions anxious with one another never appease the ravages of the monstrous need for protection.

But of course, Sakura is no lion. Wanna guess who it is?

Sakura's neck hairs stand on edge.

"Sasuke-kun," she softly murmurs, calling him. She enters the room slowly, making herself do it in the calmest, less disturbing way possible. Sakura's legs are jelly. "How are you feeling?"

Sasuke doesn't answer.

She gets closer to him, unsure if she ought to do a check out on him before or make him breakfast. She has done this several times; he makes her all nervous and anxious. She senses her head in a blur, in a concentrated fog embracing her whole existence. It doesn't help the gloomy atmosphere outside, really. It's the Lighthouse, she decides—it makes her feel trapped.

Unsure, she elongates her thin arm and, in a brief instant, retrocedes.

"I'll bring you breakfast."

Or you could come and have breakfast with me. But that would be abusing his patience.

Sakura prepares breakfast with shaky hands and pulsing veins. Even if the sun outside has risen, a fog clouds everything. The humidity is heavy, and it's nothing like the last day when a blast of the sun could have made its home here. Sakura wonders how fast the others might be. The wind mumbles.

Before sitting, Sakura decides to give Sasuke his breakfast. She's pretty foggy, confused, and dizzy. She knows this is not how things ought to be done, but she is anxious and everywhere feels like nowhere. It's the shock of moving away so abruptly in the middle of nowhere, she tries to tell herself. She should have checked him first.

Still, the mere thought of putting her hands over him again, of her feeling his cold breath, his callous hands, his secluded and trapping aura nowhere near her, makes her quiver. So, she puts the plate on a bed table at his side and sees him, for the first time in yearsSasuke when Sasuke where; Sasuke never—do something. She, too uncomfortable and uneasy, fidgets her fingers in a false act of helping him. He sits on the bed and makes the pillow rest against the bedside, resting himself against the pillow. Falsely helping him and keeping herself at a prudent distance, Sakura finally lends him his breakfast with trembling hands. She leaves.

She is making herself angry.

Why so scared, why so nervous? An alien inside this skin makes her feel an itch that is impossible to describe. She wants to take her skin off for a few good seconds. She feels sticky. It's the damp morning, the clammy atmosphere—it's her skin, glued to her muscles and bones. She is a medic. A capable medic. Never spent her years outside her parents' reach to prove herself just to crumble down this easily. She has to govern herself.

Sakura returns to his bedroom with decided steps and almost furious nerves. Isn't he the patient, isn't she the doctor? She has the upper hand—she is the one he should be scared of.

Well, no…

Sakura doesn't want him skin-pressed against her imposing demeanor, nor does she want him uncomfortable with her presence. She is here to do her work, and that's it.

She returns to his bedroom, opens his curtains, and says, "I will do your routine check out after you finish your breakfast. And you will call me when you have finished."

Decided. Secure. Convinced. In control. She calls shots. Sakura walks back to the kitchen. She hums, determined. She looks at her full, untouched breakfast. She pukes in the sink.

The hot acid in her throat is disgusting, and her hands are white in the sink, almost convulsing. She doesn't want to eat her breakfast.

She feels sick.

As expected, Sasuke mutters no word, and Sakura eats her breakfast agonizingly slow. She feels she has to eat slowly for her stomach to not return it, but she feels that those small and passive bites are making her want to puke. The food grows cold on her plate, but she knows she must eat it. Food supplies are not scarce but indispensable, and Sakura knows her wasting them will do no good to them. She eats as a penance, almost.

She leaves the dirty dishes in the sink and remembers herself to bring some water from the river and boil it down to have at hand whenever needed. First, she must do her work.

Ah.

That.

Sakura enters Sasuke's bedroom and sees him staring at his uncovered window. Her bedroom doesn't have such luxury, for the only windows in the house are the one from Sasuke's room and the large one outside, in the hallway. A resistant glass must be built from, Sakura thinks. Otherwise, the waters would have earlier shattered it. Sakura shivers. She wouldn't like to be the first one inhabiting the house while the hallway window explodes.

Imagine, the water trespassing the house

He sits to face her. Sakura has her new notebook with her. Let's see how his chakra depletion has been going.

She asks him about his eyes. Damned heirlooms of a souvenir from another life, tight sons of my sons, and she burn with unease; I'm sorry, she murmurs, and everybody is displeased.

He answers they are okay, and she feels her heartbeat tight and over a cliff in her throat. She has to do it, and the unease makes a nest inside her. Now closer, she realizes better: he is tall, broody, built, more muscular than she'll ever be. Cold merciless killer he is, and she knows. She knows. A terrible thing close enough—close enough to pierce her chest open with his bare fist. He is much taller, stronger. He towers over her.

He is a patient. She is good with patients. Do your work Sakura.

First, she goes to his Sharingan. Sweat starts to form on her brow and not out of confusion. Her hands revise his eye, and he visibly stiffens at the coldness of her green chakra. His result is expected, and she interacts with him no more; she doesn't, for her to find it useless. He is the user of those eyes, not her. She had heard them whispering and mumbling, falling over the words, he is going blind. Has some sort of disease regarding his blessing. Ironic, but she doesn't chuckle. She doesn't find it in her; it becomes significantly more challenging when one has to restrain the shaking of the hands.

She feels her heart pump inside her rib cage with abnormality. It's not precisely violently fast, but it's pumping much more intensely than usual. He is taller, stronger, towers over her. A shake of her hand escapes her.

God, God. Why did she do that? Did he notice? Yeah, yeah, he saw. No, no wait—he didn't, did he? No! He's not looking back at her, his face unchanging—no, wait, maybe he noticed. Perhaps he doesn't tell her. Maybe he saw. He saw. Nonono, he didn't; relax. Yeah, relax.

She removes her hand and writes down what she found. His Sharingan eye has been under particular pressure, the famous strain the Mangekyō visits on its user. She finds it cruel but fair. How far can simple mortals play to be Gods until actual Gods respond, ravishing at their aggravated prank? How ironic, however, when even this kind of God faces the same punishment. Better luck next time. A snort. Her chest aches.

Her chest aches and goes up and down faster than usual, heavier. He is in front of her, and only then does she realize he is stronger, taller, easier built to crush her skull. God, only this close, she noticed. The thing is, well, this close is all he needs. He towers over her. She feels smaller. She gets back slowly. He towers over her. Her throat feels dry. She just wants a little bit more space. She gets gradually farther away. He is stronger, taller. Just a little bit more space, please.

She feels sick. Nauseous even. Revulsion comes into her, and she's thankful for arriving late but not stomach empty, and suddenly she's not that happy. She doesn't want to ask him anything else. That's it. With what she got, that's it, that'll suffice. Just another check, and that'll be.

She has to elongate herself slightly to properly reach him. He notices, too, for him to slowly, meticulously, carefully—oh, had you seen how cautiously he unfolded. It made her heart skip a beat! She remained still and placed her hand over his Rinnegan eye.

Her limbs feel much lighter, curiously. They are steel heavy and yet, feather-light. Massive over her, ready to jump any time. Her skin prickles and her chest hurts. He is watching her too close. Way too close. Stares at her; stares through her. Pokes holes in her. Stares at her; stares through her. She shrinks farther away. She feels the hot prick of tears in her eyes.

She is nervous. She is nervous. Stop, stop. Her revision takes too long. Too long. He is stronger. Close enough. Her breath is irregu—HE IS LIFTING HISFUCKINGHAND

Oh.

He is just scratching his other eye.

Sakura swallows the fear and ends her chore with anger. Why is she so hysterical, so manic? Which kind of doctor is she if she allows such mundane things to disturb her that much? She is angry. Violently angry. She does not desire to engage with him any less, so she attempts to leave.

Sakura sees him point at his back.

He, unlike him, looks at her as if expecting approval. She just gets closer once again and sits at the bed's border. He does look at her. God, she feels nauseous. She sees him take off his shirt and sit again in front of her.

If Sakura was more thoughtful and competent and less preoccupied with the urgent need to not speak to him anymore, she would have asked him not to face her and instead just show her his back. Because she is angry and scared and traumatized, she relies on silence and hopes for it to not take that long.

God, he feels closer. She can see his built muscle and how easily he can crush her. At this distance, not even Chidori would be needed. He can snap her neck like a twig. Soil, fire, water. All those ways he can kill her. And much more.

He is stronger. Her chest hurts, and she is angry. Her chakra almost flares in her palms for a brief instant. Her teeth and hands are bare. Are you okay? Are you okay? I'm—she's fucked in the head. Your mind is a fucking harlot. She's all bare and naked in fury and fear. A throbbing vein in her neck, and she feels it explode, explode, explode. Her eyes are squinted, and her chest hurts. Her breathing is irregular and not precisely out of fear.

How—how, just how did they end here? He had come down with all her pride and sanity. Not this time, though. Not this time. She is incoherent, visibly mad in rage, her teeth crack, and her blood boils.

Got what he wanted, didn't he? Got what he wanted and finally got rid of her, and Naruto, oh, Naruto had just happily accepted him back because he's sad and lonely Sakura-chan; doesn't know how to handle it. Well, how about she goes on a rampage and stabs him, uh? How about?

She feels her pulse tremble, her chest going up and down irregularly. Her breath is airy and intense and yet, lacking. Her fists shake too, and she feels the hot air out of her nose, and her head hurts, and her palms sweat, and her chest rumbles and—and—and—AND WHAT?! What?! And fury. Oh, the wrath, wrath!

She leans closer to him, and it almost looks like a hug. In a way, it does, but she refuses vehemently to view it as such for her to be his victim. He always does things, and her head hurts. He is dangerous. She passes her hands under his armpits and reaches for his back, slowly treating what looks to be a wide cut. He always hurts her. It's hard to tell because she is distanced from him. He always does. He can do it. Oh, she's sure he will. She is sure. And it shames her how terrified she is. She is dead scared of him.

He always hurts her, and this is why she avoids him because she's the one with fear, and she's the one with the trembling and crippling stress, and she's anxious and wants to cry, cry. A bloody moon and its counterpart, which is purple but still a blood moon and a cry at the end of this world, sardonic and scarred: we're all gonna die, die, die; we're all gonna; die, die; we're all gonna..! He always hurts her, and Naruto doesn't see. Blind nosy… Should have stopped talking to him and never looked back. I'm sorry, bye.

He senses she is struggling to see his wound, so he gets closer. His released breath is hot and surprisingly calmed, his head resting over her shoul—

TOLD YOU FUCKING SO! TOLD YOU! I TOLD YOU! I TOLD YOU HE WAS GOING TO DO SOMETHING! Told you! We're all gonna die; we're all gonna..!

She jumps abruptly out of bed, out of her skin, crashing violently on the cold floor. Her chest shakes, and her head trembles, and her fist ache, and what? Yes, yes, it hurts. Her chest. She breathes horribly irregularly, and it scorches her insides. She is terrified until death!

He stands abruptly, watches over her, and towers over her with a disgruntled look. Always disgusted by her. His torso is bare, and the world spins.

He opens his mouth. A soft something bites his lips, dies on his tongue.

"No! No, just don't!"

She can't bear him. No, she can't. She is fucking terrified... she cannot. She stands, dizzy and nervous, anxious, terrified in the heart, and he attempts to get closer to her. Her head pounds.

She makes a line between them not to be crossed with her right arm, putting him far away to reach her. She is cornered and sees flickers. She wants to puke.

"Just—just if you"—shaky breaths and shaky hands, she trembles—"if you ever—if you ever need any—anything—if you ever need anything just—just stay—just please, please, stay away from me."

He stares at her, his Sharingan blooming and spinning rapidly.

"Don—don't you get closer to me"—passes her thin hand over her mouth, anxious—"but—but don't you ever get closer to me."

She can't make her body pick herself up for her shattered dignity. She just slides and crawls out of his bedroom. She slides the door open, and like a wounded animal, she never recovers, never stands again; there, she sits, shattered dignity and her growing facade of put-together. She doesn't even crawl anywhere else. Where else would she? She is trapped with him. Not enough distance in this world, not enough place to hide from his wrongdoings.

In the middle of the hallway and terrified, hysterical, she cries like a wounded animal.

Sakura is hurt and disappointed when her tears wash away. She is better than this. She is not supposed to act like this. Which kind of doctor is she if she allows the pressure to break her? How many hours did she spend away from her parents trying to prove herself if she still crumbles down this easily under situations like this?

Worst of all, it's not like Sasuke—it's not like Sasuke has done that much. Yes, he tried to kill her, several times in fact, and he did that thing with… with the… the… the thing with the genjutsu. Let's not talk about that. Sasuke has done plenty of harmful and horrible things, deeds so despicable and horrendous that everyone had to fade them from their minds because otherwise the Uchiha would be forever tainted. But, but if you see things in a much more unbiased light, Sasuke was unhinged. Was going through a severe and harsh rough patch that had been growing in a crescendo so vicious it ultimately led to the temporal loss of his arm. Yes, he hurt many, many people, Sakura included, and he had been mentally unstable and, and—

And what?

And nothing. Sasuke had done horrible things but after getting back to the village, what horrible deed did he do? Nothing. No scornful look, no malicious commentary, no revenge. Sakura had expected him to burst open her window and pierce her right then and there, but he never did. In fact, he just said goodbye politely, apologized for the damage done, and left. No thunderous complaint of the wrongs done to his clansmen, no violent outburst of fighting Naruto to let him go, no objections when his probation happened, no harsh words. Nothing. Sasuke left when he was allowed and that was it.

Sasuke is sick, too. His Mangekyō is leaving him blind, his Rinnegan drains his chakra, he has headaches from his maddened heirloom. Sasuke's hands are calloused by his gift and the fire consumes him; Sasuke experiences his chakra scorching his conducts thanks to his glorious Chidori; Sasuke has worn-out hands only borne by old shinobi tired by this world; Sasuke is depressed. Got no more strength to play.

There's only one memory Sakura has of Sasuke prior to this. It's despairing, and thanks to him, and out of fear, but not because he would have liked it that way. In fact, he looked ashamed, remorseful for bringing such stress to her.

He had stormed in. Appeared out of the blue. He had been out for almost two years and he seemed something resembling fearful. His eyes had been gory and spinning crazily, out of control; a long trail of blood adorned his cheeks and visited his neck.

"Sakura," he pathetically murmured, falling to the ground abruptly and grasping the corner of her desk with white knuckles.

"Sasuke!" Sakura responded alarmed, and kneeled at his side, seeing him hold himself steady with one hand and with the other touch one of his eyes. She had been shocked, maybe terrified.

"Close your eyes and—and"—had it been painkillers? She lent him some pills, but she doesn't quite remember which ones—"take some. They'll ease your pain!"

Sasuke had come back from his journey dejected, painfully crushed down by his growing disease. In his delirium, he had told her that Itachi, poor Itachi had died the same. His fear was palpable, clammy, sticky in her fingers. I don't wanna go down, not—not like this; I don't wanna do it—don't wanna live this way.

She was reminded of a younger Sasuke clenching her hand in despair and white-hot pain. Poor, poor Sasuke. She wailed with him.

Tsunade had been blunt, cruel, merciless in her statement and diagnosis. "Live fast, die young: pay the price." She almost mocked him.

Hyuuga Hiashi fancied him greater, had been blunt, cruel, merciless on his congratulations. "Live fast, die young: immortalized." He almost mocked him.

It made Sakura wonder if that's how he saw his long-dead nephew Neji.

He had worn his stars on his eyes. They were a gift from the sky, weren't they? Those eyes of his were wonderful, a miracle; those eyes of his were treasures almost extinct. He was great, nevertheless. Had slashed enough—had lived fast enough.

He had faded into the background. Made himself be put on hold. Maybe, maybe he just wanted to die. Maybe he didn't want to play his part much longer. He had said it, didn't he? He didn't want to live like that. Maybe he wanted to die. Just—just tell him when it's over.

There's not much of a reason behind Sakura's fear. He had damaged her, and did as well with many others, but beyond that? He was trying to redeem himself. Maybe this death was a self-imposed punishment.

So, in the afternoon, when she comes back with his meal, her fingers are clammy, sticky with pity that intertwines with fear. She is allowed to be scared of what he did to her, but not now. It was unfair for Sasuke to hold him in the same place she did many years ago, driven by rage and fear. When had Sasuke not been a weakness to Sakura? But don't you see Sakura-chan's hair?, her otosan said. Sweet enough to make you smile the happiest possible. Sakura has a big heart that is too heavy for her.

"Sasuke-kun." She has to admit, she dirtily recurred to the tricky sweet memories of their ephemeral childhood together. "I'm sorry."

Sasuke keeps eating.

"I'm sorry for what I did in the morning. It's not your—it's my fault. I'm sorry."

Sasuke says nothing. Doesn't look at her.

"It's okay. I was straight up rude to you, and you shouldn't speak to me if you don't want." She, scarcely, timidly, fearfully, put a hand on his shoulder. "But I am here to help you, and, no matter what, I'm your friend."

It's barely visible. He tilts his head at her, his eyes eyeing her almost imperceptibly. Sakura senses she is imagining it. Doesn't answer; keeps eating.


The second night explodes within Sakura's fingers and Sasuke still doesn't say anything. He must be angry at her, or maybe finds it worthless for him to spend his last breaths on someone that indiscreet and nervous. Maybe, there's no complex reason behind and he just won't speak to her because he has always been a man of few words.

The tic, tic, tic happened too. It's dark now, both Sakura and Sasuke have had dinner and it's raining torrents. The second night has exploded and Sakura wonders if it's a common occurrence for it to rain. Did it disturb the other nurses as much as it does to her?

The cold is unsettling. Konoha has always been particularly warm. The thunder and brutal crushing of it over the house makes little to appease her.

The kitchen is tight. Small, movable enough, but tight nonetheless. Her bedroom is too. She thought the same last night but she brushed it off as the Lighthouse had too many people—thought it was because Kasumi was sleeping with her. Now, it's impossible to deny: it's incredibly tight here. It makes her uncomfortable. Still, because she tries to make herself at home, she brings a light to the kitchen and reads.

She thought about reading about understanding Sasuke's situation. Chronic chakra depletion is the most complex of course, but his chakra burning his conducts is still hard to understand, the strain on his Mangekyō has basic principles that require extremely careful healing, of course, were not his eyes bearers of the Eternal Mangekyō, which basically makes it impossible for the user to go as damaged as blind. She needs to do a lot of research to finally help Sasuke get out of here.

Outside, thunders are accompanied by lightning. That's… too much for Sakura. She doesn't like water, because it brings rain, and rain brings lightning. Also, the water is suffocating.

She decides to blow off the light and pick up her things. She dreads walking the hallways, but it's the only way she has to reach her bedroom and there are eyes poking her everywhere. It's the open curtains, she realizes. Had Sasuke opened them? But she doesn't like them. At least not open like these, in the middle of the night, with a roaring torrent outside, with the water so threatening. Not like this. She puts her books and the lights down and resolves to close the curtains.

And then, something shines. Outside, like a mirror reflecting the sunlight, it sparks into Sakura's eyes.

It… shines? In the middle of the night? With a torment outside? It—does it shine? But what? Wears a shimmer resembling a lustrous, pompous, and strikingly beautiful pearl. It has a few greens, some pinks, and some lilacs splattered. Sakura is sure she is hallucinating. She shudders. The Lighthouse is… making her nervous. Then she sees it again.

Sakura squints her eyes and leaves the curtain. A third shimmer appears as fast as the others and vanishes as soon as possible. It's dark once again and Sakura is curious. She walks to the living room and before, opens the door carefully, carefully—what is outside?—not so carefully. She leaves it open and reaches the final door.

Because the house resembles an L too and the door faces another angle than the window does—quite the opposite angle, in fact—she has to round the house to see what she saw from the window. She enters the rain slowly, gradually, timidly. It's freezing cold and it's everywhere. Her bones ache immediately—how odd—and she decides to walk faster; a hoarse thunder has made her jump scared. She almost runs by the time she has rounded the house and faces the water she previously saw being glimmered.

She stops slowly, curiously, nervously. The water is cold and it's drenching her. Her hands are tight in fists trembling, longing to reach—but by afar—the water. Her chest shakes in a painful breath. She walks closer, nearer, nigher. She is cold. She walks, walks, walks, and walks…

The light. Light. The light. Once again, it reached the water. Comes out of nowhere and disappears immediately. An effulgent, lovely gift diluted into the water as soon as it is born. A shooting star, if you will. The light. It shines. How pretty…

She walks, walks, walks. It's beautiful. Her body is soaked. It shines. Walks, walks, walks. The light. Walks, walks, walks. The wind mumbles. Why is the wind always—the light. Walks, walks. It's cold, cold. The light. She walks. She is drowning. Walks. The light. The water is too high; her hands too far. The light. She feels it in her cheeks, in her mouth. Walks. Sakura. Sakura. She walks, walks. It's cold. The light. Intense. Sakura. Walks, walks, walks, walks. Too intense. Burns. Sakura. It's fascinating; it scandal her eyes. Walks. Walks. Walks. Sakura. Sakura. SAKUR—but the light. The light. She is drowning. Her chest aches. Deeply. For real. She feels it burn inside her. She is drowning. SAKURA!

It hits her as a raw pierce in the chest. She floats, moves her hands, tries to stay afloat; it burns. And not only thanks to drowning. It's like being ripped apart, a spasm. A clean and brutal punch in the chest. Sakura almost doesn't make it back to the shore. When she does, she crawls back with claws and sharpened teeth, with scarce air, with fear.

She crawls to the shore and coughs. It's burning her. The wind does its thing and it's raining torrents. The lig—she runs. Stands on her feet and runs. The shameful and ridiculous visit she pays to the mud it's painful and stupid, but she stands once again, running giddily and trying to collect herself, as if shattered pieces of porcelain falling apart. She runs while hearing the thunder strike the earth. Her throat falls shut and she feels despairing despair. Her chest—God it's vibrating at this point. It hurts so much and she runs, runs, runs.

When she enters the house, she leaves puddles everywhere and her dirty feet leave footprints. She closes the doors harshly, brutally, violently, and runs after the curtains. She wants to close them and go hide in her bedroom and—and—and—

And what?

She grabs the curtains and then, thunder strikes. The darkness of the night is briefly stopped by the light it produces. The light shows her something.

Sakura screams.


Finally started reading Beauty and Sadness by Yasunari Kawabata—you should do as well, completely mesmerizing by the perversion.

I'm beyond grateful, amazed, delighted with the warm welcome this story has received. For those who reviewed, a huge thanks and, Glamour and Dross: ah, I wasn't that interested in Poe neither (left his tales to rot on a dusty old bookcase for years) but when I read Red Death I was interested and then came The Tell-Tale Heart... truly wonderful, even funny—had my heart threatening me to jump out of my mouth... mesmerizing, and there's this other really famous author that I avoided for years, I didn't even know what were his stories about! And now, look at me, but telling you would be a spoiler. Really happy you noticed the Kasumi thing, and thanks for giving this story a chance. Your review had me giggling and jumping, all flustered like a teenager. To the Guest: I really hope this chapter fulfilled your wish for another one. WriterNay: as a person that has been writing for a lot, a lot of years, my biggest concern has always been the way I write—never enough, you know: too flat, too pompous, too simple, too everything too anything. The major reason I drop works is because I just cry because I just don't write anything good, so your compliment was simply sweet and had me shedding a tear. Nice reminder of that thing of "our stories may be never told the same without us" or something like that. Your spanish comment had me wondering, did you use a translator or simply read it in english? How sweet, you reminded me of when I learnt to speak english by reading lots and lots of books, fanfiction included.

Last but never least, I'm really excited and thankful for those that followed or favorited my story. Every single one of your notifications had me with my heart beating violently with joy; for those who clicked, who decided to give my story a chance even if you didn't like it, still huge thanks. The warm welcome of my fanfiction has, once again, delighted me. Not enough thanks. Hope this chapter has lived up to your expectations.