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The Philosophy of Self
Chapter Three
When he dreamed, they were always dreams of blood, and smoke, and pain, and death. Waking from them left him confused and aching, emotionally and physically. He wondered just what kind of person he was, to have a mind full of such images and memories.
He could remember exactly the hot-slick feel of blood on his hands, but he couldn't remember his own name.
He knew all the places on the human body where judicious application of pressure or blade could cause death, but he wasn't even sure who he was.
When he looked into a mirror, he knew that the face and body he saw belonged to Sasuke. He knew that without anyone telling him. The knowledge was there, in his mind. But what he didn't know was if he belonged to that body. Was he Sasuke? Was he insane to feel so sure that he wasn't? Was he sick to question that surety? Because, like Shizune had said, he looked like Sasuke. His DNA matched.
And… and he could remember Sasuke. Almost enough to remember being Sasuke. It would be easy enough to persuade himself that they were all right and that he was Sasuke. That something had happened to him to make him forget, or shut away that knowledge.
"Good morning," a light female voice greeted. He found that he wasn't surprised by her presence; he'd subconsciously felt her approach.
"Good morning, Haruno-san," he greeted, and watched a tiny flicker pass through her eyes.
"You can call me Sakura," she said, with a cheerfulness he strongly suspected was feigned. "And… what should I call you?"
What, indeed. He was silent for a moment. Evidently a moment too long, because Sakura spoke again before he even could open his mouth.
"How about I call you Uchiha-san, since you've said yourself you are one. An Uchiha, I mean."
"That's… fine," he replied. What other name could he claim? Sasuke? He felt that would only confuse matters.
Sakura smiled, an expression he also felt was more false than true. She told him: "Okay, then, Uchiha-san. I'm going to check on your status now. Please don't move."
He was strapped to the bed. He had been since he woke that first time, three days ago. Was she… mocking him? No, he decided, watching her move with swift, easy efficiency. The order to stay still was an automatic command, born of a habit developed from treating dozens—possibly hundreds—of patients.
The check-up took a short time, and then Sakura was scribbling on a clipboard, saying: "It looks like you're recovered from your chakra exhaustion. You'll probably tire out more easily for a while, but that will pass."
She looked up at him and smiled; it was a real one, but it was the smile of a medical professional having successfully treated a patient. "You'll be allowed out of the hospital soon."
"With a guard," he said. The smile disappeared. She looked back at the clipboard.
"Of course. You were a nukenin."
Leaving Konoha in the dead of night… A despised traitor barely out of childhood…
"Of course," he murmured. Sakura returned the clipboard to its hook at the foot of his bed.
She hesitated, and he heard a question coming.
"Uchiha-san," she said, carefully, "do you—?"
She stopped and shook her head. "I'll be back later, Uchiha-san. Please keep resting; as I said, you're recovered, but you're not at a hundred percent yet."
"Thank you, Sakura-san," he said. She nodded, but it was an absent gesture; her mind had already left the room. Her body followed.
He remembered Haruno Sakura. Pink-haired, green-eyed, daughter of civilians. She hadn't had much skill, when she was younger, but she did have plenty of potential. Potential that was then unlocked by the Godaime Hokage, Senju Tsunade. Sakura became a strong medic-nin, and learned the Slug Sannin's secret of enhanced strength. She had been on his—Sasuke's—Genin Team.
But the only memory he had of interacting with her was facing her across a battlefield. Why didn't he remember anything else?
Shizune had said that amnesia doesn't necessarily follow a pattern; it sometimes isn't logical in what an amnesiac remembers or does not remember. He understood that, but… When you are the one with random holes in your memories…
It was frustrating. How can you know who you are when your memories make no sense? And how can you be without knowing who you are?
As promised, Sakura was back in the afternoon, an hour or two after his lunch had been brought in. She looked at the half-finished tray, and then glared at him. He was sitting up now, the head of the hospital bed having been raised to an angle.
"We can always put you back on intravenous feeding, you know," she said. Her tone made it a threat.
"I felt ill," he told her, unaffected. Her eyes narrowed, and she walked to his side. She put a glowing hand on his shoulder, and a moment later the nausea he'd been experiencing faded.
"Finish the rice, at least," she ordered, "the simple carbohydrates should be easier to digest, and you need the energy."
She shoved the bowl and a pair of chopsticks into his hands. And looked at him.
Evidently she was going to make sure he obeyed.
Now that the nausea was gone, he was feeling hungry again. So he obligingly arranged the chopsticks in his grip and deftly levered a bite into his mouth. After a few bites were politely and cleanly disposed of, Sakura spoke.
"I'll be taking you outside for a bit when you're done." She scowled when he made as if to lay the chopsticks across the bowl. More amused than cowed, he turned the motion into another bite. "We want to give you a bit of exercise, and fresh air."
They also probably wanted to see how he'd react to the relative 'freedom', but she didn't say it, and he didn't point it out. She did say, as an afterthought: "We think that maybe it will help you remember who you are, if you can see the Village."
So he finished the rice, and Sakura gave him a set of clothes—hospital-issue, pastel-blue, one-size-fits-all pants and top—to replace the hospital gown—pastel-blue, knee-length, and embarrassingly open at the back—and left him to change. He wondered momentarily where the clothes he'd been wearing when they'd found him had gone, but he doubted they'd give them back even if he asked. Without complaint, he pulled the hospital clothes on and tightened the drawstring at the front of the pants. A soft knock on the door preceded Sakura, who held up a pair of white cloth slippers.
"Almost forgot to give you these," she said. She watched him with a critical eye as he put them on, sharply observing his movements. At his inquiring look, she explained: "When we'd first encountered you, you seemed to be having coordination problems. We couldn't find anything, other than the chakra exhaustion, that would have caused that, so I'd like to make sure you're not still having a problem."
The way that the edges of everything he look at jumped at him, sharp as knives, would still sometimes gave him headaches, but he no longer felt the sickening disorientation he'd been afflicted with before. He was steady on his feet, and his motor-skills had returned. He told her, truthfully: "I am fine."
"Yes, I don't see the symptoms any more," she agreed. She held open the door. "Shall we?"
His slipper-shod feet made no noise on the bright tile floor. He moved down the hall, Sakura pacing beside him, and turned right at the juncture at the end. Down another hall and left, and there was the exit.
It was bright and sunny out. The people walking along the street outside were smiling at each other, talking, laughing…
It felt almost surreal.
It had been a while since he'd been someplace where the people smiled.
The scent of flowers mixed with a whiff of some restaurant's kitchen tickled his nose, and he inhaled in a slow, deep draw. Sakura was watching him. "You said you were born in Konoha?"
He nodded.
"If that's true, then it's been awhile since you've been back."
"Years," he said faintly, eyes tracing the strange-familiar outline of buildings. There were at least four ANBU agents watching them, there, there, there, and there. The closest one could probably intercept him in 0.88 seconds, if the need arose. He wasn't going to be likely to do anything that would require ANBU interference, but his mind calculated it all the same.
"Well, then," Sakura said, pulling his attention back to her, "Welcome home, Uchiha-san."
The words made his heart twist in his chest, for some reason. He looked at her, vaguely surprised, and then dropped his gaze with a small smile. Home. The word brought up a bittersweet feeling. :I never expected to come back here, but… it is good to be home.:
"I think it would probably be best if we walked around the hospital's grounds. I'm not sure it would be wise to parade about the Village, not when…" Sakura trailed off, then finished: "When there are still sore feelings about your desertion."
That only made sense.
They walked around the main hospital building, and found themselves on a wide, stone-paved courtyard. The pavers were broken here and there by squares of grass and thick-trunked trees. The courtyard abutted the hospital building on one side, and opposite that opened up into a panoramic view of the Village. The hospital had apparently been built on high ground, because the pavers stopped at a railing, beyond which the ground dropped into a steep, grassy slope. A set of stairs weaved across the incline, leading up to the courtyard.
He moved almost automatically to the railing, drawn by the view. There was the odd, peaked roof of the weapons store he'd preferred to patron. And that curl of smoke was from a very good barbeque restaurant. Those grey-roofed houses were the Inuzuka Clan's holdings. Which meant that over there was the Uchiha Clan compound.
Empty now, washed of blood, cleared of bodies…
"Uchiha-san? Are you alright?" Sakura's voice, with growing concern. "You've gone pale."
"My family…" he whispered, clutching the railing. Sakura looked away, sharply. She cleared her throat.
"Do you remember—?" she started, hesitantly.
"They're dead," he preempted the question, flatly. "I'm feeling ill again, Haruno-san. I wish to return to my room."