Mourn Me: Iāll write a drabble about my character mourning your characterās death. // OKAY BUT--
Send for a drabble || @sachidaMourn Me
No, this wasnāt happening, it wasnāt true. Thatāthat wasnāt her body, it couldnātĀ be. It was someone else, someone elseās daughter, someone elseās death; Sarada wasĀ alive.
The unspeakable sorrow in Konohamaruās voice told of more than she could handle.Ā
Days later, Sakura couldnāt remember what she did. She had no recollection of putting her fist through the wall of the hospital room. She didnāt know that it took both Tsunade and Naruto to pin her to the floor to keep her from finding a physical reflection of her grief. She couldnāt remember the sounds of her screams that echoed through the hospital, of the broken sobs that silenced the halls and told the village what happened.
The Uchiha heir was dead.
She cried through the funeral, tears silently streaming down her cheeks hidden behind a black veil. Her home remained empty that night as she curled herself around the tombstone of her daughter, sobbing her sorrows in a pathetic attempt to apologize to the dead.
She should have been there, she claimed to the newly planted grass. She never should have let her go.
Konohamaru visited a week later, moving around her kitchen as he made tea. The sake was already out, but he insisted she have something else that morning. Boruto and Mitsuki came by later, the son of her best friend hugging her with all the strength he had. She crossed paths with Kakashi-sensei more often on her way to the grave.
Sakura didnāt cry during those interactions anymore. She didnāt cry when she passed by her daughterās room, nor did she cry during her first hospital shift when she returned. She didnāt break during her first mission, or the one after that. In fact, after more missions than sheād taken in years, Sakura couldnāt recall the memory of her pain.
But then Sasuke returned. Sakura took one look at his face, his gaze that her daughter had inherited, and she lost the memory of herself.