Out of the hole (rewritten)

chapter five

Hidan once again woke up alone, but even more then last time. Kakuzu wasn't in the building. Hidan freaked out, whispers screamed in his mind. He just barely able to sit up, he had to use the head bored. He wondered where his partner went. He knew Kakuzu would come back, he wouldn't waste money and time just to unbury and ditch him in a hotel room.

Hidan moved his hand to his head to push the itchy strands of hair out of his face. He realized just how tangled it is, it was longer too. He hated the feeling of unkept hair. It made him squirm, thinking of himself as dirty and gross. Hidan couldn't stand it.

With a great deal of effort, Hidan managed to slide off the bed and onto the ugly blue carpeted floor. His hands dragged his body along the floor using the strings of the carpet. He panted as he got to the opposite wall. His body wasn't really ready to handle so much strain. A pit in his stomach started to beg, wanting to be filled, but he remembered the sickness he felt the day before.

He felt along the wall, finding the door. He gently pushed opened the door, the frame was just broken enough for him to open it without turning the handle.

His chest shivered as he moved against the freezing tile floor. The smooth surface made it slightly easier to slide. He reached the wooden cabinet beneath the sink. He rested his body for a minute, this small trip had been exhausting. His body wasn't at all prepared for this type of movement. He was still too weak.

Shifting to his knees, which quickly became sore, he moved his hand up to the marble counter. The ends of it were chipped and cracked from children pulling away at it, it was almost as weak as him. Resting on his shins he was finally able to get to the top and grab the brush sitting on the edge.

A small victory for him, he was able to move just enough to fix his hair. He shakily lifted the brush to his hair, pulling it down through the matted mess. He was thankful that the nerves in his head were still on their deathbed. His hair was longer then he expected, much longer, much longer. What was once shoulder length, was now down to his hips. How could it get so long in three months? It was implausible.

The brush got stuck in the woven sliver. He yanked on it hard, but the brush remained still. As unmoving as a bolder. He grabbed the handle with both thin hands, wrapping his twig like fingers around it. He shoved the brush down as hard as he could, his hands banged against the tile making a plastic smack. "Fuck." He muttered, sucking on his knuckle. He ran his fingers threw his hair, it was only a few knots now. He could live with that.

The hole his his stomach had grown. He groaned, he needed food, desperately. The more he ate the more he'd heal. He scooted out of bathroom. He ran his hand up the wall to find a small detailed cliff, something to hold.

Pulling himself up, he gripped the ridge and started shifting his way to the kitchen area. His feet were soar the moment he let them press down on floor, making a burning sensation tear away at his legs. Pain shifted throughout his body, but it wasn't as bad as the harm he felt in his stomach. He pushed the the stinging and the fire in this legs to get to the counter.

He's hand pressed against the the rounded edge. He was searching for anything that resembled food. He'd eat his own skin right about now. He heard a crinkling sound beneath his hand, joy spread across his face. Feeling the bag more he felt squishiness. Rolls, he found the rolls he had the other night. Grabbing two of them, he slid down the counters doors, to sit on the floor. He started stuffing the pieces in his mouth it felt good but only for a minute. It came right back up almost the moment he swallowed it. The nausea got to him next

He threw himself against the wall and used the ridge to rush back into the bathroom. The moment his foot hit the tile everything came back up. He collapsed to floor, accidentally landing partly in his puke. He heaved on the floor. His hands just barely able to hold him up out of his vomit. He threw up again, but this time there wasn't any food in it. He was just vomiting his stomach. There was nothing left in him to puke back up, but he still did a few more time. Each one his was trying to bite back more and more. He felt himself grow weak.

He tossed himself backwards, a groan swimming out of his sore throat. He rolled to his side. The pain causing tears to well in his eyes. He curled in a ball. His knees and back also felt abused, due to his toughness. He felt like they were being skinned. He was in pain, he was in a lot of different kinds of it. His pounding mind let the fact that he was sick, not just mentally, but now physically as well, sink in. He was ill. He tried to move but the unease in his stomach stopped him from thinking to do so again.

With exhaustion taking over, he began to shut his to shut his eyes. He put too much stress on his body. There was both comfort and distress with wanting to fall asleep so suddenly. Sure the pain would go away, but he has seen his victims suddenly grow tired. What they thought was falling asleep became a permanent rest.

Part of him wished he would die. Part of him wished the rot would have taken him away. Maybe part of him was dead?