Naruto Fan Fiction ❯ Killing Records ❯ Killing Records ( Chapter 1 )

Title: Killing Records

Rating: R/PG-13ish

Pairing: [SakuraxSasuke]

Summary: Sakura is far past infatuation. She is above it.

A/N: Um. I started to like a canon pairing for once. Please let there be no shooting. This may be a bit weird, this fic. I'm not very good. >.<

 

Disclaimer: `Naruto' (etc) belongs to Musashi Kishimoto and its other respected owners. It does not in anyway belong to be.

 

Sakura was sick.

 

She had been ill forever it seemed, her disease the feelings for him.

 

But it wasn't just a feeling.

 

Those things, these things. They could not come and go as she would rather have. She would have (would have, would have) rather forget (she would tell herself). End the stream of never ending memories, thoughts, half-what-ifs, and lies that went through her mind more than the necessary medical-nin training she should be focusing on. The information that would help her, help others, distract her from the oppression of vague yet distinct images that haunted her forever.

 

Her. Him.

 

It was never meant to be, no matter how much she tried. No matter how willing she was to follow. The strength she needed she did not have. The super-human strength she was taught from Tsunade, the knowledge she was able to keep with an ease that others wish they had; could not help her. Could not save her.

 

Could not save her from him.

 

Could not save her from that that was cursed and blessed.

 

Often things would remind her of him, often her mind would wander, often she would just dream.

 

Once again of the days that had past. Once again of those small features, those little bits, the distinct, the vivid, the un-noticable.

 

She remembered well the colour of his hair. A beautiful blue-black that shone against the high dark collar of his shirt, the shirt with the white and red fan; his family crest upon it (how often she wished to trace her fingers over its line, along with the eye-catching shape of the muscles of his back). Hair that was not soft, but silky to touch (her fingers ached from the memory, that small brush against his bangs his uncovered forehead) smelled of him and if she were thoughtful, something sweet but not like him.

 

Also the recognizable feature, details of his face that were his (but not only, for he came from the blood of Uchiha), a sharp chin and high (characteristic aristocratic) cheek bones, a mouth that she often saw set in a thin line in annoyance or (coy) smirk that set her knees weak; for he didn't smile.

 

The white of his skin, the fine lines that made up his hands, his body, what was his bones. Slender items she wished would touch her and cherish her, caress her- a thing that would never be. Unhurt-ful, vicious, disgusting the growing beast within lying dormant in her belly. Feeding off the vibrating images, a bad replay of a dying record constantly turned on.

 

And always she would think of his eyes. How could it be? A pitch black it would seem at glance, only to be a changing (shifting like he was) grey, like smoke; wispy was it? The colour the colour of his eyes was his best feature his worst feature. For it was only he who could change them into red mirrors, reflecting any emotion she were to send out to him that was not hate. (Hate. Hate. Hate. Her fury was of a different flower than his.) She often wondered what it would be like to hate him. Would he notice her? Really acknowledge her? Let her come close enough to feel at last his bleeding pounding heart in the way she wished. A different tempo than the times of her brief embraces. (something wrong)

 

Those small things, the way when sipping his tea he would sigh and smile (not smile) briefly at the warmth. How later his hands would touch the tattoo on his neck (his eyes held thoughtfulness and no regret), how his fingers rub against each other before he picked up kunai to polish or food to eat, the way one of his eyebrows would quirk up when he was pretending he wasn't listening to anything anyone said. How he seemed irked at the mention of dango, sweet things. Or how he considerably looked at red (the first time on her dress, eyes roaming over her- it taking in the harsh lovely colour and texture).

 

Everything of him. Everything she noticed. It consumed her thoughts, her actions, and desires. (How she would lay in bed at night, pretending her hands were his and taking out false pleasure to try to stifle any form of passion or need that arose from those noted facts)

 

The disease could not kill her.

 

Rather she lived off it.

 

Survived off of it.

 

It was what kept her well. Made her sick. Took her pride, made her kill off her dignity towards only him.

 

Curling around her being like sharp claws, ready to pierce into the body she had been all too willing to give up if she could just be with him. Him, her sole purpose, her every thing. Her ideal, that boy. Her good year (bad year).

 

That boy. (with his beauty and grace she understood why the snake wanted it. Wanted its possession. She would beat him to it. She saw it first…)

 

She would seek him out. As he had done to that snake. (White snake. Disgusting as the dormant beast. Worse. Not worse. As the sick spreading within her, a fire the boy was only able to make. It rode it flared, that lethal flame throughout her in the very marrow of her bones.)

 

And she would find him. Have him at last. For now/later she would be different. The illness was changing her. Creating a setting for her perfect metamorphous (she would have him even on floor as long as it was he who was flush up against her), in a day a time (that moment she would be able to kiss him at last, have her hands on him and reverse) where every ounce of it should be set in hues of red and white (her mouth on his body, taking him in some blood some cum) and she would be deaf and he would speak (in gasps and moans, he would beg for her, want her, and she would listen only to what she wanted) and it would not be perfect (it would be perfect, he is perfection).

 

And he is her purpose. Her illness. It wouldn't be until he was hers, (was not hers) would she die.

 

But she swore it wouldn't be the illness that killed her.