Hey guys! Sorry this chapter is so short, and I know it's been a while, but uni and parental responsibilities kept me away, you know how it is :) I hope you enjoy!

Warning: There is self-harm.

I hope no one will be offended about me including self-harm in this fic, but to be honest, it won't play a very big part. At the moment though, it's Hikari's coping technique, not a healthy one I agree, but she's not in her right mind at the moment is she? She's hopelessly grasping at anything she can to forget what just happened, and right now it's that.

I don't sleep after that dream.

Kakashi and I sat up all night, more to keep myself distracted than anything really, well and because I couldn't bring myself to not have Kakashi's comfort and company, until I eventually forced him into bed to get some rest because I knew he had close to no sleep since before I was in the hospital.

He's still sleeping now, I think it must be like three in the morning. Well, actually I know it is because his digital clock is blaring it at me.

My left hand feels like it's on auto-pilot, I haven't stopped stroking Kakashi's hair since he collapsed into bed.

Funny, it feels as if I'm the one comforting him right now.

I don't mind though, I've always been one to be there for others, and my stubbornness always got in the way of letting others into my life emotionally.

His hair is so soft beneath my fingers, I've always loved his hair, even the colour of it; especially the colour of it.

I smile to myself in the darkness; his hair was one of the things that had me intrigued about him in the beginning.

And his reputation among the Shinobi in our village.

I can't let myself fall into those early memories of us, not without also thinking about- him.

I shudder involuntarily, and my right hand clamps down on my thigh again.

Damn it, I'm wearing sweat pants now. I got myself changed earlier into more comfortable clothes rather than my Kunoichi wear.

Luckily, I'm wearing a long sleeved shirt. My hand retreats from Kakashi's hair, and rolls up the sleeve on my right arm.

I look down at it, even in this darkness, with my eyesight adjusted I can see it clearly.

It's all clear and creamy skin.

But then I realise it wouldn't exactly be the best idea to dirty my pants, so I decide to take this to the bathroom.

I take a slow walk to the bathroom, and when I enter it, I don't bother turning on any lights, I don't need to see my shame reflected back at me.

I look back down at my arm, and my fingers stroke it, before I dig my nails in, slowly at first. My nails are very well kept, and not as short as they usually are. I clench my fingers harder, this time drawing blood, I bite my lip and close my eyes as I let myself concentrate on the pain, and I feel my mind clear of all my emotional turmoil, memories of the past, everything.

I open my eyes again, and take my fingers away, bringing them up to my face. They look darker now, I see the trails of blood dribbling down my fingers and traveling down onto the palm of my hand. I have felt worse pain than this so I am able to keep control over what I have just done.

I feel like this is the first time I've even seen blood, I can't keep the wonder from my face, well it's certainly the first time I've willingly caused myself to blood. Or second time if you take into account earlier.

I look back down at my wounded arm, and hold it out for me to inspect it. It looks like I cut quite deep actually. The blood is still dripping from the wound and into the sink.

My bloody fingers come down to stork along the individuals crescent moons of where my nails had buried into my skin.

"What are you doing?"

A voice cracks through the darkness, shocking me out of my amazed stupor, and I freeze unable to face them after what I've done.