Evolution to Perfection

by blackraven23

Disclaimer: I'll only say this once. Naruto. Is. Not. Mine. Comprehende?

Warning: Also something I'll only say once. Mentions of suicide and other self-mutilation processes, underlying theme of an eating disorder, dark thoughts, sexual innuendos, and spoilers if you dont keep up with the manga at all.

Oh, and if you dont like this, then keep your mouth shut.

I cant say I've ever personally experienced an eating disorder, so if I say something about it that is totally and completely wrong, then slap me. You are NOT alone people, there IS help out there :( I dont know what else to say. I'm sorry.

Summary: Self-sacrifice proves an insufficient payment for the sin of betrayal, Sasuke learns. However, he continues to fight to become what he has always feared, finding comfort and stability in the few things he can still control.

It will take you over. It will take you away. It will become you.

Upon first observation, it seems to be silent in the hospital rooms, only the faint sounds of the wind striking against the panes of the closed windows marking the passage of time. Every room lies dark, the shades drawn against the darkness that threatens to invade the sanction of the sick. However, it is not entirely silent.

Enter one of the rooms and soft breathing can be heard, adding to the slow symphony building up just outside of those wooden barriers. The low strum of a bass, with the occasional high breath of a violin peaking above the notes; the harmony occasionally broken by an unexpected creak of the floorboards, as though a ghost drifts through the rooms. The kick of a symbol as water stills in the stainless steel pipes, streams slipping out of the rims as the leaks rust the pistons; the rustle of paper as gravity finally takes its toll, knocking over a stack of Get Well Soon! cards straight onto the clean and glassed floor.

They are beautiful, these sounds; an unusual harmony that twists the normal view of what is required of a work of art. But, lying on a starched-white hospital bed, covered in a bleached hospital blanket and cover, is a work of art in its own self: a warped and distorted view of humanity at its weakest, as well as its strongest; a body disfigured almost past recognition, the stage of health deteriorated past the point of sanity.

Sleep-lidded eyes are closed, breaths coming in short stabs from the lungs, chest puffing out as the lips purse. Hands clutch at the covers near the hips, stretching the thin woolen fabric across the bony expanse. The pale skin has spider webs of veins underneath the pallid surface, the blue lines contrasting with the unnaturally wan skin in the forearms, before disappearing under the milky surface in the upper arms. The blanket shifts slightly, the thin blue shirt lifting upwards, revealing stark white skin that bony ribs show painfully through.

Hair splays outwards from the skull-like face, the sunken features haunting and heart-wrenchingly raw. Deep black circles surround the closed eyes, lids heavy and covered with sheen of sweat. Everything about the person seems to be hollow, jaded, oppressed. It's as though they were transported straight from a Jewish concentration camp—eyes heavy and tired from lack of sleep, body gaunt and empty after so many days without food, demeanor hopeless.

The skeleton-like form twitches suddenly as a rock hits the window, skittering over the grimy glass before dropping out of sight, and under the lids, the eyes shift back and forth, as though searching for something. The moment the sound is gone, however, the eyes stop in their movement, and a sigh escapes the chapped lips of the room's unconscious prisoner.

Tubes of all shapes and sizes are connected to the sleeping form: an oxygen mask is strapped to the face of the boy; an IV connected to a gradually dripping bag of clear liquid was stuck in his arm, and a heart-rate monitor beeps steadily at his side, the white line peaking and going flat progressively on the black-and-white screen. Numerous other machines beep in the darkness, their tubes and cords wrapping the unconscious boy in a layer of technology that could sense trouble from a mile away.

Step back, for the story does not only include this fragile study of humanity, and there are more. Escape from this sanctuary, and head down the dimly lit hallway, cluttered with expensive-looking contraptions, linen baskets, garbage cans, and uncomfortable chairs, towards a place of unknowns: the waiting room. There, everything is brightly lit, bleached white, and smells slightly of disinfectants.

People are curled up in chairs, on the floor, and littering corners with their unwashed presence. Most are asleep, the stress—combined with the fatigue of staying up for nearly three days in a row in worry—taking its toll. One buys food from a vending machine on the wall, watching the unhealthy food drop from its rack out of sight, before bending over to retrieve it. Another steps from the bathroom, shaking his head and rubbing his eyes with slightly wet hands. He will be going home soon—the doctors have just told him that his wife will live.

Others are not so lucky: one man has been told that his first child will probably not survive the night, another—sobbing, curled into the fetal position on a chair nearby—that her best friend's stab wounds were fatal, and yet another that their slowly dying, AIDS-diagnosed husband only has six more months to live.

The waiting room runs in high energy, the tension feeding it steadily, greedily, despite the bedraggled and unhappy demeanors of its residents. It contrasts greatly with the sleepy and almost peaceful atmosphere of the hospital rooms-- nurses flit here and there, reading off charts to doctors who run from surgery to surgery, fighting to save (but progressively losing) lives; the people half-asleep, spread out over chairs, waiting for news, ready to be awoken at a moments notice.

Focus in on two inhabitants of the room: one boy, the other a girl. They are no different from the other occupants; the boy is sprawled over three chairs, fidgeting nervously in his light sleep, blonde hair dirty and stringy as it lies close to his troubled face. The girl is curled up in one chair, hands folded in her lap, head resting against the wall, face peaceful and seemingly unaffected by the troubles going on around her. However, she knows more than she shows, and has only fallen asleep due to complete and utter exhaustion. Tears streak her otherwise pretty face, their salty remnants carving trails through the accumulated dirt that four days wait—along with a mission—has brought her.

It's like a dream, focusing closer, forgetting everything else. Seeing the intricacies that the web of tears has wrought upon the grime of her skin, the places where dirt accumulates making tiny piles at the bottom of her pointed chin. Become so focused as to not even notice the sudden upstart of activity near the nurses' station.

Doctors start running down the hall towards a red, flashing light, and they turn at the door to a familiar room. Lights flicker on, flooding what was once shrouded in a kind dimness into harsh reality. Wails of several machines fill the otherwise empty air, the fragile peace crushed by these sounds.

The slender body is surrounded by ICU doctors, frantic nurses, and an air of hesitant tension—an air that is waiting, waiting for the end, for the words to escape the qualified lips, to tell them the worst, to tell them anything. Shouting echoes through the room, orders are followed by more orders; something must be done to save this boys life.

He is close, so close, to the precipice between life and death; he is teetering on the tip of the mountain, and the scales can be so easily tipped between seconds. Any wrong move, any mistake, can cost him his life.

Then, the heavy metal door swings shut, blocking the room from the outside world, settling the hallway in peaceful dimness once again.

TBC

just a prologue, rewritten for grammar.