Haruno Sakura walked slowly to meet her husband's murderer. She wasn't afraid – he was slapped under more high-level seals than she had ever seen in her lifetime, and probably drugged, too. She was, however, a masochist. Letting her legs leisurely determine the speed of her heartbeat, the kunoichi descended on the stone steps. Coldness unabashedly seeped under her skin and into her vital organs.
Only masochism could have prompted her to stay with, to worship, such a man as her late husband. Either masochism or true love, and Sakura only had enough heart left in her to believe in one of them.
She picked the first. Even true love wouldn't cause such irrationality. True love had limits.
But masochism meant that after every sneer, every demeaning comment, every condescending glance, she picked herself up and dove right back in. Rejection was her addiction. How many other fangirls still pined over the punk bastard traitor who ran off with the snake pedophile? Only Sakura remained.
And she goaded herself with this faux-adoration, proof of her weakness. As a child, she had had a simple crush on the dreamer who dreamt so darkly, but instead of withering away or evolving into love, that crush had dissembled into something entirely different.
Oh, yes. Sasuke was a masochist's dream machine and Sakura lived a masochist's dream.
She walked slowly to meet his murderer.
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A/N: An idea to be explored in more detail in an upcoming one shot of mine. I do have to beat an idea to death before I'll leave it alone.