Deity

Chapter 7: головокружéние

головокружéние - golovokrudzenie (goh-loh-voh-kroo-dzyeh-nee-eh) - giddiness

Suicide is the proof of life.

- Kyo (Dir en Grey), 'The Final'

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The next morning, after Fugaku left for work, Mikoto drove her sons to school, ignoring their offers to walk and save her the trouble. She dropped Sasuke off first and much to his exaggerated embarrassment, pulled him back to the car to give his cheek a quick kiss good-bye before letting him run off. The door fell shut, and then she and Itachi were alone.

"It's been a while since I've driven you," she said, glancing at him in the rear-view mirror. "You want to be dropped off at the front, right?"

He shrugged nonchalantly. "The side would be better; it's closer to my locker."

"Oh, alright."

Despite the fact that his eyes remained directed somewhere out the window for the rest of the drive, he could feel Mikoto's glances back at him, though it was only as she pulled over to drop him off that she turned around to look at him completely.

"Have a good day, honey," she murmured. Her gaze could be read effortlessly, brimming with worry interspersed with hope, much deeper than that which the usual mother would have (and with good reason too). She probably knew she didn't have to disguise it, Itachi thought, since he would've seen through her anyways. And she didn't have to ask for a kiss, because he leaned forwards and touched his lips tenderly to her porcelain cheek (she always looked younger than she was). It felt to Mikoto that he lingered a little. She had always been under the impression that he let her in a little bit, and truthfully, Itachi found his Mother quite beautiful, though a bit weak-willed and breakable (that's where Sasuke must've gotten it from…). Today she was lovely in a catastrophic way; her face was free of make-up, painted with unbridled emotion instead.

Like a statue of the Virgin Mary; beautifully crafted, and yet no one can deny the sadness in her eyes for the loss of her son…

"I'll see you tonight," she told him, and he nodded to acknowledge her as he gathered his things.

(We live, we learn. We try to save ourselves.)

"Thank you," he said to her, and then almost as an afterthought. "Good luck with your appointment."

No, there really was no use hiding anything from him. But at least he meant it; she didn't doubt that he did for a second. She could tell.

Mothers can always tell.

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As soon as the door to her psychiatrist's office swung shut, Mikoto burst into tears. First, a shudder ran through her, pale vein-threaded eyelids falling closed as if in attempt to extinguish the image of everything around her. Then the sobs started, and for once, she didn't force herself to subdue them.

Her cries continued, and in the midst of it she found herself remembering (for whatever reason) the small box she had hidden in her dresser; a miniature acrylic paint set Itachi had given her for Mother's Day the year previous. She had wanted to use it immediately – oh, she wanted nothing more some days – but never had she seized the opportunity. Not while she still had meals to cook, a house to clean, and other – 'more practical', to use Fugaku's words – things to spend her time on.

Besides, she had been afraid that once she started painting, she wouldn't be able to stop herself until she'd gotten everything out of her; all those emotions she knotted up and gagged herself with, things she couldn't – no, things she was afraid to say. They would come out of her in colours and textures, alive and blatant on the canvas, paint-stains all over her once immaculate hands and clothing.

"Mikoto…?"

Oh, it seemed just impossible to hold it all in anymore… and if she tried, she knew she would soon burst.

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For the next few weeks or so, life went by in a distorted sort of rush for Itachi, as if everyone around him kept moving – quickly, quickly, quickly – while he made no effort to keep up. Well, not quite that… there really was no way to describe it. Perhaps it would be better said that he had taken a step back from life, and stopped struggling to keep up with the current. Instead, he simply let it carry him wherever it willed, taking a little more time to observe things.

Shock, one of the school's counsellors called it. "After one looses a friend," she said, "it's often you will feel great depression and anxiety." And: "We're always here if you need us." And: "Things will be okay. Life will go on." And: "We understand."

The counsellor smiled widely at him then, and Itachi noted mentally what a terrible actor she was.

The hallways had never been so filled with people, or so it seemed from his eyes. Quite a few of them knew him, knew what happened, and offered sympathetic gazes (but filled with joy at the fact that they were not in his situation). Not many of them spoke to him, and those who did just drifted along as soon as they had made peace with their need to be "good people". They had nothing to be sorry for. It was almost repulsive.

Itachi had stopped hanging around Shisui's friends altogether.

Only one of them ever really made an effort at conversation, and that, interestingly enough, had been Shisui's ex-girlfriend, the trumpet player. It had been after school one day; there hadn't been any snowfall but the sky was thick and dark with clouds, a soft fog blurring the streets around them (dreamlike; fantasy; unreal). There had been a smouldering cigarette between her lips, and she dug through the pockets of her coat to offer Itachi one as well, though he politely declined her offer.

While she spoke, she played with the lighter clasped in her right hand, painted nails clacking against the sides.

"When I knew Shisui," she had said, "he seemed pretty happy. Most of the time he was, anyways. But I guess you never really know with people, huh?"

Itachi shook his head. "No…"

"It's just kinda scary." The girl leaned back against the wall, obviously restless. "I mean, how quickly people just go like that. My aunt died last summer – got hit by a car. One day she was there, and the next day she wasn't. Any day now, I could go, or you could, and no one could see it coming. God knows I'm already setting myself up for it." She glared at her cigarette, inhaling thickly from it a second later anyways. "I mean, I don't wanna die. I like living. I make a mess of it, but I like it a goddamn lot, and I don't know how someone could willingly… take it away from themselves…."

(Only by witnessing death can we really know what it is to live…)

Her head turned towards Itachi, as if seeking some sort of contradiction from him. He merely stared at her, however, studying her a while before saying softly, but with a spark of amusement that she ignored: "If you're wondering if you had anything to do with it, I don't think you did."

"I…" The girl (her name he couldn't recall) blinked at him, distraught, before her features settled back into a collected mask. Without a doubt, that was what she had wanted to hear, what she had needed to hear for a little piece of mind. No matter how steadily someone is able to maintain him or herself, there is always a little bit of doubt nagging at them from underneath, small cracks in the façade they put out. Truly, you can never know someone completely. Most find it hard to know themselves.

"So I guess… Shisui did what he did," because no one ever said 'suicide', "for a reason. Huh?"

Itachi didn't grant her a nod, instead lifting his slim shoulders lightly in motion of an optimistic shrug. You never really know with "reasons"; some claim there is a reason for everything, while others insist there is no reason, and everything that happens is just random event. In any case, it seemed then that they had no more words for each other and so they parted with a somewhat, and perhaps desperately inviting, "Well, I'll see you around sometime, alright?" from the girl.

(In death, we re-experience that awe we knew as infants, only now we have learned to fear it…)

No one ever mentioned the fact that Itachi had been questioned by the police, but it wasn't quite safe to assume they didn't know. The meeting had gone well, of course. Itachi explained the nature of his visit was friendly; and yes, Shisui had seemed upset when he had gotten there, but no, he had no idea that Shisui might try to commit suicide, and no, he had left much earlier – two hours earlier, actually – than the time they estimated Shisui had started the pills.

If Itachi were to be entirely honest with himself, he would admit without a single doubt that he did miss Shisui. How could he not? Shisui had been his friend for a long time, one of the only people he ever felt he could really communicate with. He did care for Shisui, in an emotional way that had slipped into physical. Shisui had been an anchor, an escape, and of course… a gorgeously consuming distraction.

Shisui's end had been tragic, that was undisputable, but in a small way, Itachi was happy for Shisui, and even a little envious. Shisui had found the courage among weakness to do it, to take the plunge and leave the tiring, harrowing routine they slaved to behind. Sometimes, lying sleepless in his bed for hours a night, Itachi would imagine what Shisui's expression might have been in those last fleeting irreversible moments. And each time, he looked as if he had finally found an escape more glorious than anything Itachi, or razor blades, or his parents' satisfaction could ever give him.

(In death, we seek God; we seek certainty for all those things we don't know…)

En fin, Shisui had won.

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"Don't play stupid with me."

All he knew was the pain, coming in sharp vertiginous bursts that seemed a warning, as if he were going to be torn apart (flesh ripping easily and carelessly, like that of an discarded – unwanted – doll, and his insides were going to come out, but no, no, he couldn't, he had to hold them in!). He could feel the smoothness of floorboards pressing into his cheek, one shoulder aching from its sudden contact with the ground.

"Are you listening? You're never listening!"

His muscles were pleading for it to stop, for him to get up and run somewhere, to get away, but he remained limp in the position he had fallen in. Running, he knew, would be a bad idea.

'Just don't move' he told himself, 'and it'll be okay… just don't make another mistake. It'll be over soon.'

"Get up. Now."

He felt his father's hand on his back, strong fingers grasping the fabric of his shirt and pulling him, like strings lifting a marionette. And just like those lifeless, painted dolls, the dark-haired boy obeyed as if he had no choice (did he?), scrambling to his feet and making a quick pass at his hand with his face to hide his defiant tears. He could feel the apologies and sobs pressing against the wall of his throat, but he ignored them and the sore spots on his body (another bruise, that's the price).

'Can't afford another mistake…'

(Pathetic).

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It was like a breaking, or the rush of something as it suddenly came down on you after building and building above you for an agonizingly long time. Sometimes you could ignore the threat of it (or at least pretend to), disregarding the pressure as it started to weigh you down from every angle. There was paranoia as well, making you tense and easily startled, fearing that any moment, it could finally crumble, rupture, and you would have to bear its full weight again.

It had been quiet for such a long time in that house they called 'home'.

And the noise that came when the silence was finally shattered was nearly unbearable.

When thinking about it later (much later, it seemed, though it wasn't really), Itachi remembered being in his room at the time. There was a book in his lap, but he was not reading so much as leaning against a few pillows he had propped up against his wall and staring mindlessly at the patterns of ink on the pages. His brain simply couldn't focus on the words, and any attempt to decipher their meaning was altogether useless. Where his mind was right then he couldn't say, only that he had been jolted out of its state easily by the clamour downstairs.

In the matter of a few seconds, all thought had abandoned him. He set the book down beside him on the bed without bothering to dog-ear the page, and for a moment, he sat as still as he could manage, just listening. He heard those voices just as he had before, uttering those words in those vehement tones. The sounds came up through the layers of insulation and floorboards, hovering about the bare soles of his feet, dangling just above the ground. And despite the fact that he'd heard them many (far too many) times before, he remained motionless, as if in some sort of shock.

He would recall, with a bit of a smile (most likely noted as 'deranged' or 'inappropriate', though 'gentle' could've been attributed to it as well), how he didn't have any memory of getting up, making his legs move him out of his bedroom and down the stairs, though he knew he did reach the bottom somehow. One hand rested on the end of the banister as he listened again. The noises were louder now, or maybe it was only the comparison to the house's silence – the silence that had comforted, held, and mocked them for everlasting days – that made it seem as such.

Here, in contrast, his memories are overly sharp. Each footstep and each breath are alive beneath his eyelids, the smell of soap drifting from the kitchen (he wonders vaguely where Mikoto is). Here, he saw himself standing in the doorway to the living room, the hand that had held the banister now finding support in the doorframe. He saw the piano with the bench tucked in and his books piled neatly on top, among picture frames. He saw his father, who stood facing away from him in the middle of the room.

And he remembered closing his eyes before he could see anymore, but knowing it was there anyways. He heard the faint strain of a whimper as it left his brother's lips (pale, thin lips, pressed lips, chapped lips like Shisui's).

It was too familiar, and the nostalgia was thick, painful. Like a reoccurring dream where you've already seen the tragic ending time and time before, you know you can't stop it; you haven't been able to any night before, so why should now be any different? You've made all those mistakes before, and you're going to make them again…

Itachi was afraid to open his eyes. He could feel the fleshy pads of his fingers pressing hard against the wooden doorframe, trying to hold himself in balance while waves of sickness (among other things) crashed through him, another larger one starting as soon as one had passed. It seemed as if he could suddenly hear every little thing that was going on in that room, as well as taste it, smell it, and feel it. He was afraid then, devastatingly afraid that if he opened his eyes he would be overcome. This was not like times before when everything felt bigger, more alive and more a part of him, this was much the opposite. This was overwhelming, but instead of pulsing through him to cause elation – to make him lightless and amazed – this made him so heavy he thought himself barely able to move. It pulled him down, making him want to purge, and he was disgusted at himself for it.

It had started with the noise, but now everything was breaking.

What really got to him, though, was that he could not stop it. It had finally caught up to him, that bundle of thoughts and feelings he had pushed aside or disguised. And he felt himself starting to panic, frantically attempting to gather his thoughts and reign them back in tightly. Again, it was useless. He felt helpless (he felt human).

Oh yes, everything was really coming apart now… really coming undone.

Another wave washed over him (how long all this took, he honestly had no idea. Time had ceased to mean anything to him then), and as it began to fade, he felt beneath it a little piece of bliss coming back to him. It was mindless, disorganized, but lovely in how chaotic it was and he grabbed hold of it tightly. He felt himself inhale deeply, and though dizziness still had a strong hold on his head, he let his eyes come open.

"Stop."

At first, it seemed as if his voice had been too quiet and no one had heard him. But slowly, the scene awoke. It was Sasuke first, glancing up hesitantly at his brother from beneath a tangle of dark hair. His body seemed smaller than it ever had then, as he crouched on the floor with his knees pulled into himself, as if prepared to protect his abdomen. All the details of the room were abuzz, screaming, and finally Fugaku turned his head to look at Itachi over his shoulder.

His eyes were dark, as they always were, but maybe Itachi hadn't really noticed it until that point. He stared at his son for a few seconds before he spoke, hints of surprise in his voice as he did.

"What are you doing–?"

"Get away from him." Itachi felt the words come out of his mouth impulsively. He took a step forwards as soon as the thought came to him, without even stopping to consider the consequences of his actions, or his other options. And there was a wonderful freedom in it. Finally.

"Don't you dare touch him again," he said, his voice becoming louder with each word. "He's done nothing to deserve it."

Fugaku's gaze remained apathetic, unaffected by his son's words.

"That's not for you to judge," he said simply. "Some lessons need to be learned."

Itachi was closer by this time, and his gaze had drifted down to Sasuke, who was watching the confrontation with wide, frightened eyes. Though Sasuke himself was unaware of it, Itachi could see a splotch of pink blooming on Sasuke's cheek; it wasn't big, but against the pale skin, it was vibrant. It was all just contrast. It was all just point-of-view.

"I won't let you," came Itachi's voice again, as more of his rapidly forming thoughts combined into words and coherency. "I won't let you anymore. I've had it. Get away from him, now."

"What's gotten into you?"

"I said get away from him!"

Itachi listened to the cadence of his voice, hanging in the air above them and reverberating all around. Sasuke flinched, still keeping himself deathly quiet while a look of bemusement spread over Fugaku's face.

"Itachi." His tone was stern, a challenge and a threat. Something like this certainly hadn't happened before, and he was unsure of how to deal with it, to get rid of it. He just couldn't let it go on as it was.

"Go back upstairs," he said, speaking slowly to make sure Itachi listened to every word. "This doesn't concern you."

Itachi shook his head at this, standing his ground. There was just over a metre between them; if Fugaku had wanted, he could have stepped forward and hit Itachi right across the face, but for whatever reason, he didn't.

"Not until you get away from him."

"I said, this doesn't concern you," Fugaku snarled.

"It doesn't matter if it does or not," said Itachi. "Get away from Sasuke. Don't lay another hand on him. I should've stopped you earlier, much earlier, but…" and he faltered, the exact words to explain slipping through the cracks. "Don't you dare touch him again."

Fugaku eyed his son. "You know, I'm beginning to think that Sachiro was completely right about you."

"Right about what? That I was the one who pushed Shisui into killing himself?" Itachi asked. He took another step forward, reckless and fierce, but sure. "It was your sister and her husband that did it. They just pressured him, and pressured him, and beat him until he couldn't stand it anymore. Do you realize that? Do you realize what they did to him? All of you, fascists! Stalinists!"

"And yet you still think you had no part in it?" Fugaku accused. "You've always been naïve, Itachi. For a while now, you've been on the edge of something like this… or maybe longer. Maybe you've always been this corrupt."

"If I am corrupt, who do you think corrupted me?"

"You corrupted yourself!" Fugaku shouted. "I tried to get you to turn out the right way, and it was working. But you went off and completely made a mess of yourself, and then dragged Shisui down with you! I suppose you intend to bring Sasuke along now, is that it? You're sick."

"I–"

"Be quiet!" he roared. "You need to learn your place! I am your Father, and I will raise you and your brother in the way I know is right! I will not have you ruining what I have built for this family! I will not have you ruining things for your brother like you have ruined them for yourself and Shisui as well!"

With that, he closed the distance between Itachi and himself with one long stride. Sasuke, who had remained on the floor in his awkward position, let out a quiet cry and buried his face into his arms, his entire body quivering madly with muted sobs. But Itachi stared Fugaku straight down fearlessly, watching as his father approached, pulling his right arm back. And in the split-second before skin met skin, Itachi could feel a push of air against his cheek. Then pain; all he knew in that moment was the pain, ripping through his cheek. Familiar, however it was in such a way that it almost didn't matter.

The most glorious sound of heartbeat filled Itachi's ears as the blood rushed back into his face. He had been pushed back a step by the force of his father's assault, but only physically was he at all fazed. One hand rose to his face, touching the wound gently. He could see Sasuke behind his father still, forgotten for a while, and Itachi smiled.

"Is that all?" he asked. "All you're going to do is hit me? You should know that's not going to work anymore."

"Ungrateful brat," Fugaku hissed.

Itachi smirked. "Words won't work either. I'm quite able to hold my own against you with words."

Almost quicker than he could see, his father drew his arm back again and sent his fist at Itachi's other cheek. The same sort of pain exploded there again, but it made no difference.

"Is that all?" Itachi asked again. Yes, this was great! His father's attention was focused solely on him now, not a shred of it on Sasuke. That was all that really mattered just then; Itachi would take any kind of pain, any words his father threw at him. None of it mattered – right now, he was able to make sure absolutely none of that emotion hindered him.

His father's fists pushed him back a few more steps, delivering blows to his shoulders and chest. This was the kind of rage that was uncontrollable, addicting, and without needed reason. Itachi could feel blood dribbling down his chin from the cut in his lip, and an ache in his shoulders as he was pushed to the ground. There he stared up at his father, eyes meeting eyes fearlessly, challenging. And for a moment, maybe more, he saw something in his Father's expression falter.

('Can this be called victory?')

And Fugaku's eyes pulled away, catching sight of a figure off to the side.

"…what's going on here?"

Mikoto had filled the spot in the open doorway where Itachi had stood, dressed in only a white terrycloth bathrobe that made her skin looked even more flushed than it was from her shower. Her hair was still soaked, dripping pools onto her shoulders, and the floor below. There was something a bit hysterical about the way her eyes scrolled over them, though her body was relaxed, passive.

"Are you going to answer me, Fugaku?" she said, voice soft, but with a severe edge to it.

Fugaku glanced at her, slightly perturbed by how solid her words came.

"Discipline," he said, as if this would make her understand everything. And this seemed to be the answer she expected, the despair on her face sinking in deeper as she turned her head to look at Sasuke, who was still cowering alone where Fugaku had left him. From behind the cover of a slim hand he watched, his breath pattern still uneven and pained.

"You call this discipline?" she asked steadily, sadly. "You were beating up your own sons, Fugaku. What could they have done to need that sort of discipline?"

"I wouldn't expect you to understand, Mikoto," Fugaku told her callously. "But there does need to be a certain order around here."

"Order," Itachi repeated, now having pulled himself to his feet again. "Look what this order has brought you and your sister…"

"Shut up!" Fugaku directed another blow at his son, but stopped as Mikoto rushed over to them and another sharp "Stop!" hit the air. One of her thin arms came across Itachi's shoulder protectively, pulling her body in front of his. She seemed quite small then, an inch or two shorter than Itachi at least, but she stayed her ground, glaring up at her husband aggressively.

"Get out of the way, Mikoto," he said, but she refused to move. "I'm warning you…"

"Are you going to hit her too?" Itachi asked. "Like you hit me… and Sasuke? Are you going to 'discipline' her too?"

Fugaku sneered. "She knew what was going on!"

"Yes, but… but I never knew it was this bad!" Mikoto protested. "And I was afraid! What was I supposed to do? You never listened to me… I tried to talk to you, but you hardly even paid attention to me at all! What could I do?" Her fierceness had dwindled, every word she spoke sounding like an excuse as she tried to regain herself again. "What you do isn't right! You shouldn't be hurting them… they don't deserve that."

"You're a fool," he told her bitterly. "Our son's a murdering faggot, and you're a goddamn fool."

Before she or Itachi could get another word out, Fugaku was taking leave from the room with strong strides. They heard him in the kitchen – the sound of something banging down against the counter, a closet door opening and slamming shut again, the jingling of keys – and then he reappeared in the hall, giving a curt glance to his wife and eldest son.

"I'm going away for the night; this all should be sorted out by the morning," he told them dismissively as he pulled on his coat. "Such a disappointment…"

The front door slammed shut behind him, and it was as if the entire house exhaled deeply as they descended into silence. Adrenaline faded out, and soon, all Itachi could hear was the sound of a clock ticking somewhere in the house, and his brother's panicked respiration.

"Sasuke…"

More droplets of water were shaken onto the floor as Mikoto knelt down in front of Sasuke, shifting her bathrobe a bit as to make sure she was covered before the younger boy latched tightly onto her, pressing his face into the soft white material covering her shoulder. She rocked him gently, forward and back, stroking his back and hair protectively. Tranquillity was washing over them, somewhat of a hesitant relief, not knowing whether it was deserved or not. But the battle, at least, was over, and now they could rest, not having to worry until morning chose to wake them.

Itachi remembered standing very close to his Mother and brother then, none of them speaking, and suddenly finding that he didn't know what to think about all this. In his mouth he tasted blood, bitter and metallic, and slipped his tongue over his lips into attempt to clean them of the red stickiness. He probably looked like a mess… bruises crowding his face as they began to bud, swelling up and discolouring his pale skin. They stung, but he couldn't really feel it. Things were beginning to get a bit blurry, all dripping into each other. He was drifting out again…

"Itachi."

He felt a hand close around his wrist.

"Take Sasuke," Mikoto was saying to him. "Get yourselves cleaned up and then go to bed. It's Saturday tomorrow, so you can sleep in as long as you like."

"Mom…"

Mikoto was smiling again, smiling so hard she had almost convinced herself she meant it. It almost hurt to see her mouth twisting that way, and the tears on her cheeks as she squeezed Itachi's shoulder, begging him with her eyes.

"I'm sorry," she murmured.

"You don't have to…"

"I do." She sighed, pulling her bathrobe a little tighter around herself. "I need you to take care of your brother right now, Itachi. Please. I'll be okay, I just… have to make a few phone calls, that's all. It's you… you just make sure you're okay."

She nudged them out of the room, her eyes still stuck on the photographs sitting atop the piano and the smiling faces staring back at her. And she couldn't stop wondering to just how much she had let herself be ignorant to all those years (she used to love him, you know?), and just how much it would hurt to finally see how much of who she used to be had been worn down over time.

Yes, their 'home' had split wide open. Finally.