***WARNING: The content in this chapter might be triggering***

It was morning again. She didn't know what day, didn't care to know. All she knew was that three others had passed since she'd been brought here and this was the fourth. Another day was starting, and it was one more than she cared to witness. One more night looming ahead, full of darkness and the terror of memories that replayed like the daily cycle behind her closed eyes.

She didn't know which was worse, living with the pain or sleeping with it. When she was awake, it was all she could think about. When she was asleep, it was all she dreamed about. There was no escaping it, no release. She wished she could just slip away. But she couldn't. No matter how hard she tried, it was always there, waiting for her. Making itself known in constant reminders that ate at her, tearing her apart from the inside out.

She felt so heavy, so weighed down with it all. All the grief, the heart ache, the misery and guilt … it felt like a lead weight inside her chest, crushing on her lungs and heart. There were days where she couldn't bring herself to rise under the heaviness of it all.

God, she just wanted it all to stop. She wanted to stop feeling these things, stop replaying it over and over in her head. She wanted to stop existing. The person she'd been – that happy, bright eyed woman who had stared back at her from photographs in the apartment – was gone. Not completely, not yet, but somewhere between living and dead.

And the one keeping her in limbo was asleep at her back, one arm draped across her waist like a tether.

As if he could hear her thoughts, Kakashi shifted next to her, murmured something against her hair. His arm tightened briefly, a subconscious act to assure she was still with him. What choice did she have? He was there whether she wanted him or not, held by a vow he'd made what felt like a lifetime ago to a woman who no longer existed. A dead woman. There was no bringing someone back from the dead.

There was still a part of her though that clung to him, a part that had somehow survived the destruction of her world. It was small and mostly relegated to the background of her mind, but every so often it would make itself known. It would force her to get up and join him at the table, let him comb out her hair. It made her want to sink back into the warmth of his arms, drink in how alive he still was, and hope it was enough to keep her going as well.

But it wasn't strong enough to overcome the guilt and pain that constantly gnawed at her, the uncertainty that haunted her dreams. She almost wished she could hate him for how effortlessly he seemed to let go of it all. Just pack it all away into boxes, shove them to the back of the closet, and move on with life. Eventually, if you pretended and lied long enough, it might actually become real.

He hadn't been there though. He hadn't been in that room, hadn't seen the tubes and machines. He hadn't felt the cool skin, mottled blue from poor circulation, or the pulse that struggled to keep going. And that was the problem. He hadn't been there when….

Sakura closed her eyes and bit hard on her lower lip to keep the sobs in check, but there was nothing she could do about the tears that rolled down her face and disappeared into the pillow under her head.

There was no bringing someone back from the dead.

She'd cried that night and every night since: for him, for her, for the fact that Kakashi had promised to be there. He'd promised. And he'd broken that promise. Maybe if he had, she wouldn't have done it. Maybe if he had….

She tried not to blame him, but sometimes she did. If he had been there, like he'd promised, would he have stopped her? Could he have stopped her? But those were just 'what if' questions. It didn't change what had happened. The fact remained that she'd known the rule, known the reasons why that rule was in place. And she'd broken them, all because she couldn't believe it – refused to believe it.

There was only one person she could truly blame, and that was herself. And that knowledge destroyed her, broke her under its weight. She couldn't bear it, but she could never ask someone to do it for her. Not even if, deep down, she secretly blamed them for the part they didn't play. This was hers and hers alone to carry.

Sometimes it felt so heavy she thought for sure it would crush her under its weight. Other times it felt so tangible she almost imagined she could reach around her shoulders and feel it there. But it never faded. It was always there, waiting for her. God, she just wanted it to stop haunting her.

The tears came harder, her fingers clenching the pillow so tightly it was a miracle the fabric didn't rip. She managed to control the sobs from racking through her, but there was nothing she could do about the tears. Kakashi shifted behind her again, only this time he didn't settle back asleep again. She felt him push himself up onto one elbow, could feel him staring down at her, and immediately feigned sleep. It took everything left inside her not to tense when his fingers traced along her cheek, touching the moist path the tears had left behind.

"Sakura?" His voice was a little raspy from sleep, but the way he said her name was soft and very nearly made her want to melt into him. He placed his hand on her shoulder, shook her gently. "Sakura, are you awake?"

She couldn't look at him, because as soon as she did she'd start to believe the lie in his eyes: that it hadn't been her fault, that there was nothing anyone could have done. It cut her deeply, this war between knowing what was and wanting to believe the fiction. She'd start to feel angry that he had broken his promise to her, and she didn't want it turning to hate. Not for him, not ever. She already carried so much. It tore her already aching wounds wide open, salted and rubbed them even rawer. If they were physical, she would have been bleeding out right there on the bed, she was sure of it. She reminded herself that he didn't know she'd been there. He didn't know that….

Sakura kept her eyes carefully closed, kept her breathing even, and silently willed him to go back to sleep, to leave her alone. He couldn't carry her grief and his as well. She was already over the edge, and he was going over with her like a weight around the ankles. He was killing himself by hanging on.

Why couldn't he just let go?

She heard him sigh before the bed tilted and evened out. The warmth at her back was gone and the coolness of empty air washed in to fill its place. She heard his bare feet move across the carpet before the door to the bathroom slammed shut. A moment later and the sound of running water came from the other side. It was much louder than what the shower was capable of; the sink must have been running as well. He was drowning her out, she realized. Drowning her out of his life, if only for a few minutes.

Slowly, she rolled onto her back, stared up at the smooth plaster ceiling overhead. Her body felt leaden, a physical manifestation of everything inside of her. He wasn't going to leave, she realized numbly. He was going to stay with her, for better or worse – until death do they part. That was what he'd promised her three years ago.

Her eyes closed. Her hand moved across the mattress until her fingers met the softness of his pillow. She dragged it across her chest, let it settle over her face. His scent clung to the linen, something that was both earthy and storm-torn sky at the same time. It suited him, she thought as she turned over again onto her stomach, pressing her face into the giving material.

It didn't take long for the pillow to become warm under her deep, stifled breaths. Every inhale was hard earned, every exhale was forced back into the cotton in a burning wash against her eyes and cheeks. The lack of oxygen made her thoughts hazy, almost nauseatingly so. She knew what would happen next, if she allowed it: she would lose consciousness and her automatic responses would take over, reposition her so that she could breathe again. She'd tried this before, when she was alone at night in the apartment. Each time, she would wake up to sunlight and Kakashi telling her breakfast was ready through the closed door.

Sakura turned her head to the side and the unimpeded rush of air into her lungs felt chilled after the oppressive heat of the pillow. There was no escape. She was trapped here, just as she was at the apartment, with the memories and the overwhelming culpability of what had happened. God, she just wanted it to end.

Her eyes, blurry from crying, settled on the dresser mirror across from her. There was a woman staring back at her from a rumpled bed. She was pale, wax-like, thin enough to be called frail. Her pink hair was tangled and fell over her like kelp dragged from the bottom of a lake. And her eyes … green and dull, empty of anything that even remotely resembled life.

She sat up, watched as the woman in the mirror mimicked her. There was no mistaking this woman for the one in the photographs, the one who was smiling and so sure of herself. Their hair and eyes were the same color … but that was where the comparison ended.

"Go away," she whispered to the reflected woman, watching as her lips moved as well. "Just go away."

But she didn't. She continued to stare back, a wraith in the glass. Sakura wanted to break it, destroy the woman on the other side.

Her eyes scanned around for something she could throw and settled on Kakashi's belt and hip pouch resting on the table. She could see Icha Icha Tacics peeking from under the flap, could make out the odd lumps of other objects inside. Things like a summoning scroll, extra binding tape….

And a kunai. Kakashi always kept a spare kunai in his hip pouch.

Slowly, she pushed herself upright and slid her legs over the side of the bed. It was only a few feet from the bed to the table, but it felt like miles. She reached out and slipped her hand underneath the unsnapped flap. Her fingers brushed across his book, felt their way along scrolls and other unidentifiable items until they discovered something cool, metallic, and familiar in its weight. Her palm fit around the kunai handle as surely as it ever did and drew the blade from its hiding place.

She stared at it, taking in the thin black casing that protected reaching hands from its razor-like edge. The light in the room was brighter now and caught on the scratched metal handle loop. The grip was covered in well-worn tape, allowing her to see exactly how his fingers fit around it. Automatically, her fingers adjusted to match those imprints while her free hand carefully removed the protective case. The case dropped to the floor as she slowly made her way back over to the bed. She sat down at the foot, eyes riveted on the weapon.

Unlike the handle, the blade was polished to a high, reflective sheen. Her eyes met the green ones waiting for her in the mirror. Was it her or was there a thread of fear in that echoed gaze? Her eyes dropped to study the edge of the kunai, knew without touching that it was sharp enough to slide cleanly into a person's flesh. It was a weapon perfectly honed to destroy life.

Sakura looked up, looked at the woman in the vanity mirror. Her fingers tightened around kunai.

The kunai was slapped violently from her hand and went spinning across the carpet.

She'd barely registered the pain in her hand before she was being dragged to her feet by her wrist. She gasped, eyes widening, as fingers dug in hard enough to bruise. Her pulse was pounding, fighting against the constriction on her wrist. She looked up and immediately wished she hadn't.

Kakashi loomed over her. Water from the shower still clung to his skin, dripped from his hair. He was wearing nothing more than loose pajama pants … and he was beyond furious.

"What do you think you're doing?" he demanded harshly, the words falling bitterly from his mouth.

Sakura's lips parted, but before she could even think to utter a response he was shoving her away from him.