Insomnia

Mikoto is a terrible mother. This is something that she has known since the day that Itachi was born, and something she's been able to freely admit since the day that he stood up—knees trembling, eyes determined—walked ten feet across the living room floor, and fell without crying.

She felt guilty, then, for not stopping him. He'd never tried to crawl or roll over or even turn his head, but she should have realized that his genius would show all at once. –A prodigy. The doctors and nurses had told her to expect the signs. In the hospital, as she'd watched them wipe the blood away from his face, she'd prided in the fact (and been scared of the fact) that it was Uchiha blood.

She should have noticed the way Itachi's eyes, dark and alert and suspicious, followed her out of rooms as she left them. She should have noticed the curling of his fingers when he had nothing to hold onto.

She should have noticed that on the day he put so much effort into walking, for the first time, he was headed straight for a kunai.

…But she didn't notice until it was too late, and the special Uchiha blood was spilling out of an open gash in his arm. He stared at it curiously, then wiped a small hand over the injury and giggled.

Horrified, she ran for a first-aid kit and disinfected everything in sight before wrapping his arm in gauze as tightly as she dared.

Later, it scarred.

-

Itachi is twelve years old now. Mikoto fears that she is a worse mother now than ever.

She watches him eat his breakfast—there are three piles of food on his plate, disappearing in the same order—and she wonders when eating, of all things, became a task to him.

His hand is steady as he brings the chopsticks to his mouth, and his eyes are so lifeless, so confusing, deep even in their emptiness. For a moment she thinks she has been sucked into the depths of them and hurled into a world of his creation, but then she blinks and she's standing in the kitchen again, regarding her eldest son strangely.

His dream world (her imagination, she assures herself) was dark and cold. It felt like there was no air, and the moon in the sky was stained red with blood.

She shakes her head and tries to imagine him with a smile on his face, teaching his little brother, Sasuke, something. …But then she realizes that, being a shinobi, the only thing he knows is how to kill.

Mikoto gasps and drops a plate. It descends in slow motion and her heart throbs loudly as she watches it, eyes darting between Itachi and the doorway where her husband is standing, a frown plastered on his face.

It falls without grace and shatters the deafening silence.

Her husband keeps walking.

In an instant, Itachi and Sasuke both are at her side. Sasuke picks at the largest shards of china tentatively while Itachi sweeps the stray pieces into one of his hands, seemingly ignoring the chalk-like substance that coats his fingers while he sorts through the danger zone.

He pushes Sasuke aside with a clean hand, a firm press on the shoulder, and then quickly, efficiently, disposes of the broken plate's remains. Once finished, he also scrapes the rest of his remaining breakfast from the table and into the trashcan, and then watches for a few seconds in a cool, detached interest while his brother—his clone, Mikoto reminds herself—rakes a set of chopsticks across his own plate rudely, toying with his food before shoveling it down his throat and coughing.

When Sasuke is done, Mikoto hurries to his side to clean his mess like she would for a smaller child, ignoring the fact that he is seven years old already. She wipes the table down with a damp cloth and breathes in the smell of lemons as Itachi scrubs his hands—thoroughly, furiously—in the kitchen sink.

Somewhere in the back of her head, a little voice that is much too insistent and impolite to really be her says that it smells blood, too…blood that will never wash off, blood that has been there since the very first time that she allowed him to fail, and then…and then there is even more blood…enemy blood, from the day that he made his first kill.

She asks the voice to be quiet—begs it to remove the grip it has on her sanity—even if only for the sake of her youngest son.

She doesn't want him to know how tainted his brother is. …She doesn't want him to realize that she is the root of all his problems, or that she will betray him in the same way she did Itachi.

She thinks it would destroy her.

Sasuke's trust and loyalty (and the smile he saves for her) are things to be treasured. Things that she would guard with her life.

-

When Sasuke's eighth birthday rolls around and she finds that she is housing a stranger, Mikoto is devastated.

It had been so easy to accept the fact that Itachi was not hers. She had always known that he belonged to the village, and more importantly, to ANBU. When it came to Itachi, she had never expected to coddle him…so her second pregnancy was like something of an indulgence, and she took great joy in the knowledge that Sasuke would be her baby for as long as he lived.

But now that he's eight years old, and so eager to trail after Konoha's youngest ANBU captain, she fears that he is becoming blind to the fact that they are family.

He is her baby and she is his mother. Every time she bends down to tug on his sleeve and carry him away, she knows that she faces the possibility he will brush her off in favor of Itachi. His tiny fingers against her hand sting like they're made of ice whenever he pushes her away, and it hurts so much more than it should.

Every time that she asks an errand of him, she knows that she faces the possibility he will decline in favor of training with Itachi. He stares through her like she's made of glass, and then he departs with the thing she used to call a son and now regards with wary respect.

She wants to love Itachi still, but she's afraid to.

…And as for Sasuke, she tries so hard to cart him off to a world of innocence, but he won't let her. His teachers won't let her. Her husband won't let her.

If she had her way, he wouldn't even be a shinobi. If Fugaku hadn't been so stubborn about the subject and if Sasuke himself hadn't been so fiercely intrigued by the sparkle of a shining kunai, Sasuke could have been a civilian.

But fairytale endings never happen the way they should, and Mikoto isn't fool enough to believe in them anymore.

Itachi was her fairytale. He was supposed to be a bundle of giggles and smiles, but instead she got a shock of dark hair and a set of scowling thin lips, accompanied by charcoal eyes that glittered with blatant distrust of the world.

Before Itachi was Fugaku. She had always dreamt of marrying a man of wealth and prosper, someone whose face had 'fame' written all over it. As she aged, her delusions of the perfect man had matured with her and developed into fantasies of a shinobi that could not be beaten. She had wanted a strong nin to protect her, and instead…she was thrust into marriage with an alien she didn't want to familiarize herself with because his appearance was so dull. Even then, there had been gray hairs gathering at his temples, and everything about him had seemed so ordinary down to the very fire jutsus that he was so keen on displaying.

Having her false realities of both Fugaku and Itachi being brought to light had been hard. Being forced to realize that the marriage papers were practically set in stone was something she was nearly moved to tears about. Their agreement was never meant to be so binding…and her freedom was never meant to fly out the window that quickly. The papers were irreversible. Divorce was nonexistent.

Being forced to understand that she no longer understood Itachi was something that was even harder.

She stopped being able to read him shortly after he graduated from the academy. During the minimal amount of time that he actually spent there, his teachers would often take notice of certain peculiarities that were, apparently, very troubling.

At least two nights a week, she had a sensei on her doorstep. Three or four times a month, one of them would be brave enough to venture inside for coffee. The things that they told her were painful to hear and worse yet to believe.

They mentioned that Itachi had an unnatural fondness for violence; said that he exerted extreme force in the classroom environment when it was clearly unnecessary.

In one instance, a fairly new sensei had offered to take the plunge for the rest of the staff, and he had taken the youngest of the students out for some fresh air in the forest. According to this sensei's reports…well, while enjoying his little taste of nature, Itachi brutalized a rabbit.

This was something that Mikoto had laughed about at first. Itachi, killing a rabbit? A little bunny? No. He wouldn't! …Would he?

But the sensei had then proceeded to describe to her, in great detail, how the class had come across a rabbit that was caught in a hunter's trap. Itachi had deduced that the person who set the trap was of shinobi caliber, and then he killed the rabbit with a single kunai, letting its blood fleck across his wrists without caring.

As a person with a decent conscience and a good deal of empathy, she was disgusted. As a mother, she was horrified.

She couldn't look at him the same afterwards, and she was sure that he knew the reason for her sudden change. Itachi was a very intelligent boy. She wouldn't begrudge his mentality.

And Sasuke doesn't see it at all.

She wonders, probably very belatedly, how two people can be so deceptive in the impressions they leave. To anyone else, Itachi would appear polite and soft-spoken, but she's slowly beginning to uncover the truth. When nobody is looking, his eyes flash red in irritation or impatience. She waits for him to leave real evidence of madness.

His younger counterpart (Sasuke, naturally) would appear clever and insightful to other people. …But to her, he's an eight year old boy who, on his own birthday, knows of nothing that doesn't concern Uchiha Itachi. –Who are his parents? Does he have a favorite aunt? It doesn't matter to him, and inside, Mikoto is dying.

She leaves the house. She has to get away. Soon she is running down a dirt path to who-knows-where, mourning the loss of the men in her life. She knows next to nothing about them and wants to know absolutely everything, especially in Sasuke's case.

She hungers for information about him. She needs to know all of his tiny quirks and favorites.

But everything about him is foreign save for one thing.

…So she continues running down the dirt path and then, once she nears her destination, she sits and waits for the ripples in the water nearby that will tell her Sasuke is skipping rocks in the Nakano River again.

She fists her hands in her apron and almost, almost has to smile, because, despite how quickly and how blindly he chases after Itachi every day, he always comes outside to toss rocks into the river before he goes to bed.

She starts humming, patiently waiting, eyes transfixed on one of his usual spots, but the light starts to die as the sun begins setting, and when Fugaku calls her from the house, she's forced to retire for the night.

She goes in to check on Sasuke—just to make sure he's all right, because he never ever misses out on skipping rocks, after all, and it's his birthday for crying out loud—but finds him sprawled across his bed, on top of the covers, fast asleep.

Stumbling out of his room, she hunts down her husband and demands to know when her youngest son fell asleep. She asks if he's sick, wonders how hard he's been training, worries that he might not be warm enough, in there all alone…

But Fugaku assures her that Sasuke will be fine without any blankets to comfort him. He tells her that there's still time to make Sasuke into an excellent shinobi, a formidable foe, and he doesn't intend to waste a minute.

His eyes are like liquid metal as he stares through her, giving a dismissive nod before leaving, but she grabs him by the elbow and confesses, spilling all of her most intimate fears.

"Fugaku! Fugaku, honey, I'm scared for him. He's been so focused lately, so attentive, and so in-tune to everything Itachi does that it's driving me crazy. He's turning into a mini-Itachi! I think you're working him too hard. You should tell him…that when you say 'you are my son indeed' to Itachi, you don't mean for Sasuke to become just like him!"

He huffs and says nothing, shrugging out of her grip and crossing his arms.

She regards him blandly before huffing too, throwing her arms up in the air in defeat, her lips thin.

There are tears pricking at the corners of her eyes when she speaks again.

"He wasn't at the river tonight. To skip stones." She catches his eye and looks away quickly, too quickly. "He wasn't there…"

For a moment he seems surprised, and then he lets out a dark chuckle.

"Mikoto," He says softly, half-laughing, half-serious, "Sasuke hasn't been out to the river in weeks."

The weight of the world comes crashing down on her in all of about two seconds. And then she notices the painting on the wall in their living room, and, curious about its origin, she asks.

"Sweetie, where did that come from?"

The second that the question leaves her mouth, his features contort into something that looks suspiciously like shock.

He clears his throat.

"My mother bought that for you the last time you two went shopping together. It was one of those girly bonding things."

Hm. Well then.

"Oh." She says seriously, "I don't remember."

Her voice sounds quiet even to her own ears, and she feels lighter than air. Inside her head, that nagging voice that takes pleasure in saying rude things about her choices in life…is actually afraid for once. Throughout her life, it's been there as a constant, piercing through her thoughts with a shrill cruelty that still surprises her. But now that little voice—that second persona—is just as confused as she is.

The painting…the painting…where did the damn painting come from?! She has no memory whatsoever of purchasing it. Even after Fugaku's explanation of it, his words trigger nothing.

And she finds it hard to believe that Sasuke has disparagingly abandoned the Nakano River after he's skipped rocks in it for as many years as she can recall clearly. From the time that he was old enough to even hold a rock, he's been skipping them like there's nothing he's better at.

But it must be true…

Fugaku presses a cool hand to her forehead, and, making sure to stand at a bit of a distance, he tells her to collect herself and retire to their bedroom for the night.

"You are running a fever, Mikoto," He says sternly, "You need to rest."

But sleep eludes her.

She listens to Sasuke's even breathing in the other room and discovers that she has no idea where her oldest son is. While she ponders about sleep, it begins to rain outside. The water droplets on the tin rooftop would normally make for a nice lullaby, but she doesn't feel very normal anymore. In fact, she wishes she could die. She closes her eyes and wishes for a slow, painless death. Graceful, if possible.

But insomnia and pain are both things that she deserves.

Fin.

Author's Notes: This is the longest single piece of writing that I've submitted in a while. Please accept it as my apology for not being more active lately; I realize that I haven't posted anything in nearly a month, but my grades in school are suffering right now and it's crucial that I hike them back up to acceptable scores before finals.

The idea here is that Mikoto is a guilty mother. I've always liked to imagine that beneath the cheery smiles of her canon character hides a moodier, more remorseful woman. I feel that Kishimoto left us with a basic black and white design for her, if you will, but he left behind all the gray areas. As a fanfiction writer, I think it's my duty to try and shed some light on those gray areas.

I do intend to post at least one more drabble before the end of this week. It's quite possible that it will be a two-shot, but that's all I'm going to say on the matter. Again, though, I'm very sorry for the neglect.

Once summer arrives, I will spoil you all rotten! ;)