this one is really rough I'm sorry in advance. (trigger warning: b/p)
Sarada stumbled into the locker room, her mind still reeling from the bomb Tsunade dropped on her. She opened her locker and stared blankly inside. Her breathing grew shallow as she recalled what she knew was true.
Ballet was her mother's passion, her identity.
Ballet led her to the love of her life.
Ballet was the love of her life!
And then Sarada's mere existence robbed her of it.
Her mother was forced to retire at the peak of her career because she got pregnant. Tsunade just confirmed as much. And that revelation was emotionally overwhelming.
Did her mother resent her?
Did her mother regret having her?
Hot tears pricked the corner of her eyes as her mind bombarded her with more and more heartbreaking questions.
"Sarada…?"
Did her mother wish she had never been born?
"Sarada?!" Boruto raised his voice a touch louder as he called her name for the third time. She flinched when his hand landed on her shoulder, finally pulling her back to reality.
When Sarada turned to face him, Boruto quickly noticed the tears threatening her red-rimmed eyes. "Hey… are you okay?"
She attempted to swallow the dry lump in her throat and lied, "yeah."
His hand fell from her shoulder, skimmed down her arm, and captured her limp hand. Her entire body felt heavy and numb, she couldn't pull away even if she wanted to.
"You could… talk to me, ya know," he told her softly, concern swirling in his blue eyes.
"There's nothing to talk about." Sarada bit her lip to prevent it from quivering. She just wanted to leave so she could go cry in private, but his hand squeezed hers tighter as if he knew that wasn't true. "Really. I'm fine."
His brow furrowed at her continued denial, but he seemed to hesitate with his next words as if debating if it was his place to say something.
"If…" Boruto paused. "If it's about prima auditions or evaluations or whatever you want to call it, I really don't think you have anything to worry about."
Fuck. Sarada cringed.
Evaluations to determine the company's next prima ballerina had completely slipped her mind.
Her dream was on the line. If she wanted to be prima ballerina, if she wanted someone to fall in love with her dancing, she couldn't lose focus now. But then a new line of questions began itching at the back of her mind.
Did her mother expect her to become a prima ballerina to compensate for her shortened career? Is that what all the camps and the clothes and the lessons were for?
A painful, anxious feeling knotted in her stomach as she wondered what would happen if she couldn't live up to her mother's expectations.
"Do you want to go grab something to eat? Take your mind off of things?" Boruto offered when she didn't respond.
"No," Sarada immediately dismissed. She did not like eating in front of other people if she could help it. But she quickly realized that might have come off a bit too rude when his hand released hers.
"Sorry, I mean, no thank you. I'm just not hungry," she amended. Her gaze returned to her locker. Her fingers wrapped around her opposite elbow, as if missing having something to hold on to once his hand disappeared.
"A walk then?"
His concern was weird, but his persistence was weirder. Why was acting like he cared? They barely even know each other. Sarada shook her head and mumbled, "I just want to go home."
"Alright," Boruto hummed. "I guess I'll see you tomorrow?"
She nodded, her eyes avoiding his worried gaze. "I'll see you tomorrow."
It was well past her usual bedtime. She was mentally and physically exhausted from the day's rehearsal, but Sarada was restless, pacing around in circles in her living room. Her mind, too, was stuck in a seemingly endless loop of intrusive thoughts.
If she doesn't become prima ballerina, will her mother not love her anymore?
Could her mother have ever loved her after she ruined her treasured career?
Sarada pressed the heel of her palms hard against her eyes as she hung her head. Unable to control the sobs that wracked her body. Her heart ached in her chest.
If her own mother didn't love her, could anyone?
Was she even worthy of love?
Sarada promised herself that the last time would be the last time. But she desperately needed something – anything – to quiet her mind, so she snatched her keys off the table and slammed the door behind her.
Most days when Sarada left the house, she wore her hair in a pristine slicked-back bun, doing her best to play the part of the perfect ballerina. Tonight, she wore her hair down. Her raven locks acting as a dark curtain to hide behind.
With her hands shoved in her pockets, she marched down the sidewalk illuminated by streetlights. Paranoid, her dark eyes flickered to the occasional car or person that passed by, but thankfully at this time of night, there weren't many.
She cautiously entered the 24-hour burger joint a few blocks from her uptown apartment. A relic of an older era that somehow managed to survive the neighborhood's near-constant renovations. Maybe it was a bit tacky with its neon thunderbolts, but the quality of the food kept loyal customers coming back again and again.
Sarada's eyes scanned over every empty table, making sure that no one she knew happened to be there, before walking up to the register.
She hated herself for coming here again, but at least for the first time since she left rehearsal that evening she wasn't thinking about what a colossal disappointment she was.
She was thinking about what she was going to eat.
When an older woman came from the kitchen to the register, Sarada continued staring up at the menu. An excuse not to make eye contact even though she already knew what she would order.
"Whenever you're ready," she prompted.
"Can I get two deluxe thunder burgers with no onions, an order of chicken tenders, a large side of fries –"
"The chicken tenders come with fries," the cashier interrupted.
Sarada huffed out a breath, trying not to sound too irritated. "I know. I want a large side of fries as well, and a strawberry milkshake too, please."
"For here or to go?"
Sarada was grateful there was no further comment about the quantity of food she ordered, even if the cashier's face showed her surprise as she continued to tack more items onto her order.
"To go," she answered. The cashier pressed the buttons on the register and swiped her credit card.
Her fingers impatiently drummed against the countertop as she waited to be served.
When the cashier finally returned with a tray full of food. Sarada snatched both bags and her milkshake off the counter and turned on her heel to head out the door.
The walk home felt twice as long as it did to get there, but the moment she made it in the door she was unloading the bags onto her coffee table. Light spilled out from the kitchen, barely offering enough illumination for her to see in her darkened apartment. But Sarada preferred it that way.
She closed the curtains before she sat down on the living room floor, eagerly wetting her lips as she surveyed the food before her. The tempting aromas filling her nose had her conflicted on where to start. But eventually, she settled on one of the burgers, the diner's signature dish.
The moment Sarada bit into her burger, she nearly moaned at the taste. From the juicy beef to the fresh lettuce and tomato to their secret sauce, all the flavors complimented each so well.
She took another few bites before reaching for a chicken tender, dipping it in the side of creamy, buttermilk ranch. Then a handful of fries and another bite from her burger.
It all tasted so good, she could practically feel the dopamine rushing to her brain and allowing her intrusive thoughts to float away.
There was a delicious contrast between her dressed up burger and her simple chicken tenders. The salt coating her fries was perfectly punctuated by the sweetness of her strawberry milkshake.
But it was the same as last time. The same as it always is.
Each bite had diminishing returns.
When Sarada bit into her second burger, the guilt crept up in the back of her mind. But the worst part was, she couldn't stop. She kept eating even as her stomach began to protest.
As she shoved another several fries in her mouth, nausea and shame churned deep in her gut. Sarada reminded herself that she knew even before she sat down, that this greasy food would upset her body. On good days she ate a clean, vegan diet. Fruits, vegetables, no dairy, no added sugars.
Even as she recognized this food would make her feel like shit (because it always made her feel like shit), she felt powerless to stop. So she continued eating until all the food was gone.
Sarada leaned back against the couch with a groan as she shamefully stared at the empty wrappers that littered the surface of her coffee table. She hated how uncomfortably full she was. She hated the way her leggings seemed to stretch over her bloated stomach. She hated herself for going there again.
Why did she go there again?!
It never helped. In fact, it always inevitably made her feel worse.
Sarada felt disgusting for how much she ate and embarrassed at her inability to stop herself. She couldn't be eating like this when she was supposed to be preparing for her prima evaluations!
Her fingers combed through her raven hair in exasperation. Prima ballerinas don't lose control like that! And they certainly don't gorge themselves on fast food in the middle of the night!
Prima ballerinas are supposed to be poised, polished, and perfect!
They're supposed to be thin!
Frustrated, Sarada pulled at her hair as she berated herself for being none of those things. How did she expect to ever be chosen if she showed up to rehearsal tomorrow looking like a bloated mess?
Tsunade was brutally honest. She would unremorsefully point out in front of everyone that Sarada was looking sluggish or her leotard was too tight. Maybe she'd even speculate her midnight snack of choice and the other girls would inevitably snicker at her expense.
Sarada winced at the thought of a particular pair of blue eyes looking at her with disgust.
But why wouldn't he? And why wouldn't everyone else for that matter?
She was disgusting.
Sarada banged her head back against the couch cushions, dark eyes staring up at the ceiling. Rehearsal was in a matter of hours, she couldn't possibly show up like this.
She had to get rid of it.
After a deep breath, a resolved Sarada pushed herself up to stand. She padded through her darkened apartment, wiping her tear soaked cheeks with the back of her hand. When she flipped on the bright bathroom light, her gaze avoided the mirror and instead fell to the toilet.
She had to get rid of it if she wanted to be the next prima ballerina. Prima ballerinas are never fat.
Sarada knelt down on the unforgiving tile floor and pulled her hair back into a sloppy ponytail. She opened the lid and stared into the porcelain bowl.
There was no other option.
She had to get rid of it now.
Sarada leaned over the toilet, one hand gripping the edge of the bowl. She opened her mouth and shoved her fingers into the back of her throat, forcing herself to gag until she began to vomit.
Fresh tears pooled in her dark eyes as she retched. Her stomach heaved, forcefully evacuating the last of its contents.
The burning taste of stomach acid lingered in her mouth as she stared disappointedly into the toilet. She thought she might feel accomplished or relieved after ridding herself of such bad foods.
But just like last time, she didn't feel any less disgusted with herself.