The dream begins as it always does, with me asleep.

In truth it is only technically a dream, in that it is a sequence of events playing out in my mind while I sleep. Because, while dreams are generally fictional constructs of an imaginative mind, my 'dream' is in fact a rerun of the very factual events of the worst night of my life.

So, again, the dream begins as it always does, with me asleep.

It had been a nice night before that; my clan had celebrated its one-hundred-and-fiftieth year since our founding, and I was sleeping the sleep of the content.

I was happy.

Then Itachi walked into my room.

It wasn't the first time he'd come into my room at night. He did so every now and again, and I'd long since learned that what he wanted was not conversation but to watch me sleep, and I would lay quietly in bed until I drifted off again, feeling safe under his gaze.

So no, that wasn't the first time that Itachi walked into my room at night, but it was the first time that he did so covered in blood.

The smell washed over me like a flood; the smell of iron and death.

I turned to observe him in the weak light, nothing but confusion and worry in my heart. Not worry of him. Worry for him.

Itachi's steps were calm, measured; his expression blank, and his eyes glowed red in the night, the shuriken shaped pinwheel of his mangekyō sharingan on full display.

"Itachi, what happened?" I asked. "Are you okay?"

My brother looked at me, and I saw death. For three days, I saw death.

Over and over again I watched, physically unable to look away, as he butchered every single member of my family. Of our family.

Our cousins, our nieces, nephews and aunts… our parents.

He killed most of them in their beds. He killed Yasuke in his crib. Our parents he beheaded while on their knees.

And I watched it all. Over and over again. Crying, and screaming, and begging for it to stop. For him to make it stop.

But it didn't. In truth I don't know if he even could have made it stop.

My torment lasted an eternity. It lasted three days. It lasted three seconds. And it somewhere within that time that I realized that it was Itachi doing this.

My brother was showing me this event, replaying for me the act he'd committed before walking into my bedroom, covered in the blood of our clan.

When it finally ended, I sank to my knees, unable even to cry anymore, and that was when my vision changed.

Suddenly, everything was brighter and clearer than I'd ever imagined it could be.

I could see everything around me in perfect detail. It was beautiful. It was marvelous. It didn't matter.

As a biological Uchiha, I had naturally fantasized for years about awakening my sharingan. I had thought about how momentous a day that would be. About how father would smile and look at me proudly, and about how Itachi might even give me one of his rare hugs.

I had dreamt of and awaited the sweet taste of the day I finally became a true Uchiha.

Now, that day had come, and all I could taste was ash.

I looked up at Itachi, and for the first time since he walked in, his face shifted from its carefully maintained blank mask.

His eyes met mine, and his lips curled slightly downward in disappointment.

"Disappointing," he said. "I'd hoped you would at least be my equal."

I blinked, those words barely managing to crack through the hurricane of emotions swirling within me. "W-what?" I asked, my voice coming out as a broken whisper.

As though he hadn't heard me, Itachi mused idly; "But, who knows? Maybe even with only this…" He looked back at me, staring silently for several long seconds.

"Enjoy the gift, brother," Itachi said finally. "Use it well. I'm sure some day we'll meet again."

He turned and walked away.

I tried to follow, but I collapsed back to the ground; my legs wouldn't work.

Breathing came harder and harder, even as my heart beat fast and shallow. My impeccable sharingan vision narrowed, then it dulled, and eventually, darkness claimed me.

——

Ironically, falling unconscious in the dream causes me to wake in real life.

I don't scream. I don't pant. I don't even thrash around. Not anymore. Because, despite how much this still hurts, it is an old wound.

I have mastered it.

Caleb's memories inform me that I may be in denial, and that it's more likely that I'm simply repressing my trauma.

I tell Caleb's memories to shove it.

Even though it's barely five and my team will be meeting at eight to embark on our mission, I get out of bed.

Mastered or not, I won't be going back to sleep. Not after that dream.

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