+Blame+
by BlackRaven23
It was all he could do now, blame, blame, blame, until there was nothing left.
He blamed Temari for bringing him and Kankuro here, in the dust that swirled in the soft light of lanterns and the thick strong smell of alcohol that hung heavy in the air and curled up his nostrils until his head was light with just the smell of it and his protests weren't so fervent.
He blamed Kankuro for the drink the puppet-wielder had pressed into his hand; the drink that cured the shivers of unease around all these people who hated the monster that lived in his skin, his blood, his mind, but couldn't recognize him in the dark under the heavy hand of the hypnotizing music and intoxicating alcohol.
He blamed the warm drink that had slid down his throat, faintly acidic but was tempting and intoxicating just as much, that had made his normal hard-headedness faint away so he wasn't as wary, wasn't as protected, his emotions weren't so hard to reach.
He blamed her raccoon-eyes, so similar to his even though they were just kohl; and her way of dancing so he was aware of her every movement every swing of her hips seductive in his eyes; the way her lips were slightly parted as her mouth was just waiting to be captured.
He blamed the music the way the drums beat methodically hypnotizing consuming until there were only her hands raised above her head brushing her slim fingers through her soft, smooth, roseate hair, and he was beside her the entire time.
He blamed the way she moved around him, pulling close to his body their skin barely touching and he could feel her heat and her breath on his cheek and there was nothing else but their bodies and the music and her kohl-rimmed eyes.
He blamed the way she traced her lips seductively, a small curve evident on her mouth as she danced dangerously close to his mouth asking him in a small breath almost silently, to kiss her.
He blamed the way her mouth tasted so compelling as his hands clasped the back of her head, her arms around his neck, her lips moving against his to a beat he faintly knew as his heart.
He blamed himself for taking her to a place he didn't recognize in the dark, for letting a feral and raw animal loose in his body, doing things he couldn't register and would have done otherwise but couldn't stop.
He blamed the way her voice sounded as it called his name softly a way he had never heard his named called and would probably never again hear.
He blamed the way their bodies seemed to fit perfectly together, as if nothing could come between them in the night because nothing had and none would have dared try.
He blamed the way her skin had felt against his, so soft so smooth, dark against his light, the other half to his broken circle that he had never dared try to fill for he thought it would hurt too much.
He blamed himself, the drink, the air, the alcohol, the dance, her raccoon eyes and her dance; the lights as they swirled around in his head and the darkness that had held them both in its warm cocoon as the last vestiges of his strength had left him, he blamed all those things, but he couldn't bring himself to blame her.
For now here he sat, a different kind of blood on his hands and down his legs, and in reality couldn't find anyone or anything to blame but himself; because it was his mistake, his choice, his problem that made her loose innocence. Because now she was gone and he was left alone between the sheets of the bed he never used, with only regret and blood he did not recognize and for once did not want this blood nor did he crave it.
All he wanted to do was give her back her words, her innocence that was so real so true so pure it made his eyes that had never known tears want to cry for the unfairness of it all. All his emotions that were new to him had been torn out of his heart sharply and it was as if there was a gaping hole in his chest where his heart was supposed to be.
It seemed as though he couldn't protect himself from the sickness that was setting in like gangrene into his blood and under his skin. It burned at his eyes and his solar plexus, his headache even more pronounced than it should have been after only a single drink and he was overcome with the feeling of desperation, of loss, something he rarely thought he could feel.
He found it hard to focus on anything, the white sheets before him melded into a milky grey and the bright deep color of red blood had faded to an impenetrable black as the room swam before his eyes.
He was overwhelmed with the strange, strong desire to cry, to scream, to tear apart the room before him in a fit of fury and desperation, the desire to hide underneath the covers, cowering and afraid, and to never come out. Yet he had no real reason to do this, no power in his weak limbs that hung by his torso, useless. He couldn't bring himself to do anything but breathe and stay conscious.
Drained and exhausted as if he had run for 20 miles in a sandstorm, although he had never done such a thing in his entire life although he lived in the desert the entire time of his existence, much less last night when he had been too mesmerized to do anything at all, he pulled himself wearily from the bed and went to his shower that he barely used.
He pulled open the door and turned on the water up to full heat and stepped inside, shutting the ribbed glass door closed behind him. Keeping one of his bloodied hands out of the spray of the boiling water, he leaned up against the tiled walls. Resting his forehead against the cool mosaic of tiny different colored tiles forming a white lily flower, while the hot water ran down his back and legs, he began to search inside of his pounding head as to where the deep sense of loss came from, but immediately knew it to be from the girl, Sakura, there was no one else who affected him as much as she had.
He suddenly wished for her arms around his neck, their bodies pressed together again; but this seemed as though it were a distant memory he could not access and he felt as though he wished to scream.
This addiction, this obsession, this need he had never experienced before, all connected to her, and it was beginning to make him sick; this dependence that all leaned on a missing girl and an illustrious, although his first and he hoped, his last, one night stand. But he wanted more than that, not entirely sure if he wanted that to begin with, and knew only one thing for sure in his sea of doubts and uncertainties.
He had to find her.