The nerve had snapped. It had snapped, and he could hear the heartbeat for a fraction of the moment. It had been released, the crack that he had tried to keep hidden, it had snapped and become larger. The words of the prodigy had hit a chord in him, one that was long buried. The pain that he had felt of losing someone he had cared about. It perhaps could have rivaled, what Itachi had for Sasuke.
His fingers leaving another imprint of pressure. The skin would bruise if he had tried, if he wanted it to. Despite the other being somewhat decent of health, this was merely one of his better days. The pressure was giving his mind a scapegoat from the words that of course imprinted into his mind, and made the crack become a fissure at least to him.
He was digging his hole more and more with his words. Cracks were forming on what was left of Madara, what he had pieced together for the longest while. The fractions and segments he had kept together were breaking, it had been awhile since the prodigy had gotten the better of him.
"Sometimes…" He paused, the hysterical edge to his voice coming back again. "I wonder if I had been better off slaughtering your pathetic excuse of a sibling in front of you. It makes me wonder how quick you would have cracked or broken to my will if I did." His words were laced with a type of malice that was to the very heart of him.
His other hand slipped to the skinny bone of the Uchiha's hip bone, digging his nail into the flesh. The searing smoldering anger, for showing weakness showing now in his flawed heart. The rage that leaked out in pools it seemed. The apology seeming to be forgotten because the cracks had become to much for himself to handle the memory of his own brother sinking into his mind.
"You never lost him. You may have made him hate you, loathe you and even detest you. But you and I both know, beneath that your brother, still in his heart cares. That you couldn't twist him to your fullest because the second, he learns the truth of what really happened that night, he'll become the one thing you hated." The words a rage-driven and almost hateful.
Digging into his flesh, and leaving marks, marks that have imprinted the boy since he was a child. Leaving the crescent shaped marks on the bare skin of his hip, tightening the hand around his neck, choking him for brief moments, and then digging that hand across his neck drawing reddened lines from his nails.