He slammed his forehead against the wall in desperation. Trying to get the thoughts, the images out of his mind.

He felt the scratches and then: warm liquid on his own arms, like he was inside her.

Familiar?

He was crazy. She was crazy. Emotionally stunted, each for their own reasons. His were obvious.

Murder. Pain. Betrayal. Revenge.

Hatred.

Or the lack thereof.

Hers were slightly more complicated. Not that he truly understood. He felt (as much as a self-proclaimed Avenger can feel) that it had something to do with him. His leaving. His abandonment. This could, of course, have been his own narcissistic tendency mixing with an errant form of concern in his breaking mind.

The sweat fell from his face in droplets the size of quarters. Or so he thought. His eyes, his mighty, sought-after eyes, could be playing tricks on him. It would be typical. Betrayed by his own body. It was coming soon enough.

-kun.

He wished the pain would make her stop talking. She never stopped. Even now, the ceaseless chatter rings in his ears constantly.

Her emotion. His rejection.

There. That. That was not his thought, nor his brother’s. That was the third voice that joined the every-present contention in his mind. Albeit, belatedly.

This time, his head is flung backwards against the headboard in hopes of clearing out everything. He needs to be clean. Vacant, save for one objective.

His hands feel for the razor that isn’t there. If just for one quick flick, to ease the noise coming from inside. A distraction. For once, a welcome distraction. Or was it to feel his blood commingling with hers?

Che. Annoying.

His fingers find nothing on the bed. No sharpness, no coldness. Just damp sheets and confusion. Already he’s forgotten what he was searching for moments earlier. He knows she’ll whisper it to him soon.

I love you.

He falls gracelessly on to his pillows and closes his fickle eyes. One arm is covering his face, as if reinforcing a barrier against the outside. He’s inside, now. Dead to all, except the three voices inside him. Each equally persistent, slowly grinding away at his reality.

Hate me.

Gain power.

Come home.

The third affects his emotional eight-year-old self the most. This child locked deep inside of his so-called rational mind. His fists clench the sheets. The other two voices begin to gain merit.

It really is too bad; the same little boy who knows he should go home, well, he can’t help but listen to his older brother.

---

I know, I’m a big, fat stinkin’ liar. I said this would be a one-shot, and well… I couldn’t help it. Someone suggested I try to further it, and I thought to myself, hm, what would Sasu-chan have to say about all this. I don’t know that I’m so happy with the last part of this, but sasuke’s a bitch to write. And so, fo’real. This is the end.