notes: an old draft, rewritten in around thirty minutes. Hope you enjoy. :)
and so I say I don't love you
though it kills me—
He lies on his unmade bed, deciphering the sound of emptiness, and tries to capture the memories before they dissolve in the air. The glass shards on the floor are three days old, and there are empty vodka bottles by the bed.
It's at times like this that he recalls everything in excruciatingly vivid detail: the startlingly green hue of her eyes, the low hum to her voice, the attire she dons.
She cut the picture on his bedside table one night, the one of Team Seven and Kakashi, trapped under glass with their smiles frozen solid, as he pretended to be asleep and she pretended she didn't know. He listened to the crunch her scissors made on the picture, blades treading brutal lines around her head, the faded color of her hair. Later she carved at it: clawed out her eyes, stabbed until the smile on her lips turned into a frown. Used the sharpest kunai she could find, too; dry, skin-cracked hands clenched tightly around the hilt until her knuckles were white.
Perhaps, he thinks, they have been wrong for a while. Perhaps they have been wrong from the start. Perhaps they have been the naive ones, foolishly believing that they are made for this. In the end, nothing else matters but this defeat, the closet half-empty without her clothes and a bridge burning with immeasurable space between them.
It just got too hard, she said on the last day. It just got too hard to care. I thought... she paused, bit her lower lip so hard that it drew blood, I thought I could do this. I thought I could help. You...
(I can't fix you fix you I can't you I can't fix)
... you understand, don't you?
Yes, he said, I—
She looked up, and the hope in her eyes killed everything he could ever be.
—understand. I understand.
She nodded. Reached out to touch him, her fingers curling around his tightly and lingering there for a breath too long. Her hands were ice against his, and in a moment of weakness he damned her to hell and kissed her, then; brushed his lips against her cold, unwelcoming mouth. Lightly, though not gently. Not enough to make her stay. Goodbye, it whispered, an armful of broken promises and bitter farewells, goodbye.
These are the things that he would remember about her: how easily she bruised, how even the dullest knives slice her skin like rubber, how she bleeds crimson and bright. How everything he did shoved her heart into her stomach, dimmed the light in her glittering eyes, suffocated her with disappointment so acute that she could not breathe. That she hurt too deep, laughed too loud, loved too hard.
He presses his face to the pillow and it is damp. He sees her somewhere in the darkness, then, fingers spanned across the sky to cradle the silver moon in her hand. Lips trembling and tied with words swallowed whole; her breaths gray clouds in the midnight air. His scarf, black and tight around her throat, like a cold hand.
(In the end, she is the one who escapes.)
—it's a lie that sets you free.
notes: I hope that wasn't too rife with metaphors and symbols that it could not be understood! The lyrics under the title are from James Blunt's "Love Love Love". Beautiful song, that one. :)