Portraits of our dreams (Hashirama x Madara)

8. The possibility of two-sidedness (Madara)

There had been something awfully familiar about him. Something about that chestnut hair, that height, that build... But I couldn't understand what it was. It was as if I had reconnected with an old friend, although I knew he was not. I usually didn't believe in reincarnation, but I couldn't help but wonder if we hadn't known each other in a previous life or maybe several.

But it wasn't just the comfort of familiarity his looks provided. There was also something else. A different type of familiarity that did not come from his looks, but I couldn't pinpoint what that was, either. I only knew that this familiarity did not feel good, as opposed to the one his looks provided. This familiarity felt... threatening.

But I had still liked my time with him immensely. And when I came home, I was still alone, and my phone was still on the kitchen table, just where I had left it.

But when I checked it, my heart sank. There was a missed call from him. From three hours ago. And a lot of texts. Shit.

My heart started pounding as I read them.

I phoned you, but maybe you're in the shower now? Call me as soon as you see this.

Madara? Where the fuck are you?

If I wasn't stuck in a meeting, I would come home this second.

I'm going to kill you once I get home.

With a trembling hand, I phoned him.

"Finally. Have you been out whoring?"

Yes.

"No", I said. "I fell asleep."

"For three hours? And why didn't you tell me you were going to sleep?"

"It was an accident" I tried desperately. "I was just going to watch a documentary, but I fell asleep. As I told you, I've been poorly. I didn't expect I would sleep this long. I phoned you as soon as I got up, I swear!"

He became quiet, and I could hear how he tried to come up with another reason to threaten me.

"Fine", he finally said, and hung up.

Even now, after all the times he had been cruel to me, it hurt. It hurt that he just clicked me.

When he came home, he wasn't violent. What he did was even worse; he ignored me. This was the one thing he did that I hated the most. When he was openly aggressive, at least I knew exactly where I had him. But now, I knew he could become mild and loving or abusive and dangerous at any time, and there was no way for me to know which version of him I would get.

It was unbearable.

Then, Hashirama called, and I cursed myself for not remembering to put my phone on silent mode.

"Who is it?"

He seemed to believe me when I told him it was someone who had dialled the wrong number. But even so, he exploded.

"Why the fuck did you answer?"

I couldn't answer that, because the truth was, I had just been so happy to see Hashirama's now familiar number on the screen that I thought it worth the risk to actually answer just to hear his voice.

He didn't beat me up for it, but he started throwing plates in the kitchen, destroying all of our good glasses, even managing to cutting the stove, that was an induction plate made of glass, in two.

Then, he went to bed, leaving me to pick up the mess that was his mood and my life.

I cried as I fixed the kitchen to the best of my abilities.

Once again, I imagined the bartender was there next to me, helping me clean up the broken glass. When I cut myself on a particularly sharp shard I had been stupid enough to pick up with my hand, he was there, sucking the blood, putting a band-aid on it.

Who is so stupid they pick up glass with their hands? I thought. He's right. I'm dumb. I deserve this.

The next day, a Friday, he didn't come home after work. For the first time in months, he was late, and when he came home, he was drunk, just as I had expected, and he smelled of another man's cologne, also as I had expected.

I didn't say anything. I knew that if I even opened my mouth, he would find something wrong with me. Maybe, I thought, I should just say something really cruel to him so that he kills me and I escaped this life. Maybe I can start believing in reincarnation, and go find that bartender in his new form and be with him. Or be alone. God, the luxury of being alone...

But this time, he was violent to begin with. He didn't even need a reason. He just beat me up.

And it was the worst time yet. 

I passed out. When I woke up, didn't remember anything, but I saw crushed porcelain next to me, and one side of my face hurt so much, I wondered how I could have passed out since the pain I felt must surely be able to wake the dead.

There was vomit next to me; I had thrown up. He was on the couch, still passed out, I saw.

I forced myself to stand up to look at myself in the mirror. What I saw made me burst out in tears. Silently, of course, because if he woke, he would kill me.

The entire left side of my face was black and blue and swollen, closing my eye. My hair was smeared in blood. My clothes were torn, and I had a cut in my lip.

I looked hideous. But I wasn't upset because I was vain. Instead, I felt a deep shock over what he had done to me. How could I still be with him, when he could turn me into something so physically grotesque?

As if sensing I was having these thoughts, he stirred in the couch. My heart stopped as he slowly sat up.

And for the first time ever, I became frozen in fright. For the first time ever, I feared for my own life.

"You fucker", he said as he staggered towards me. "Look at you and your ugly face. I have always known I'm the only one good enough to accept your ugly appearance. But now, even I don't want you.

It was you who made me like this, I couldn't help but think, but I still couldn't move.

He walked past me, brushing my shoulder as he went to the kitchen. When he picked up out sharpest kitchen knife, I thought I would faint in fear. I pleaded to my feet, begged them to move, but they wouldn't.

"I'm going to kill you", he said. "Then I'll kill myself. But first, I'm going to make you beg."

And as he approached me with the knife lifted, that scent of someone else's cologne hit me in the face.

Suddenly, I saw someone else in my mind's eye than the man before me. But this time, it wasn't the bartender. It was Hashirama the photographer.

He was smiling at me, telling me I looked beautiful while holding his camera.

You can do it, he said. I believe in you.

And from somewhere, I got the strength to kick him on his knee. A terrible cracking sound echoed throughout the apartment. He screamed and bent down to hold it. Without stopping to think, I took the opportunity to kick his other knee as well, making it impossible for him to run after me.

And I turned towards the front door and ran out.

It felt as if I were running through syrup. He screamed after me, but I had made him unable to move. I didn't bring my keys, instead took them out of my pocket and dropped them on the floor together with my engagement ring.

Then, I ran down the steps, silent tears of shock streaming down my face. Meanwhile, I shut off the tracking device on my phone and deleted the app altogether.

I ran for half an hour, until I was somewhere I had never been before. There, I took out my phone, and I called that oh-so-familiar number.

"God, Madara, I am so happy to hear from you", Hashirama said.

And I was in too much pain and shock to notice that he sounded as if he had been crying, too.

"Can I come to you? Please?"

"Oh, God, Madara, what in the world happened to you?"