Archive: will be at my page eventually.
Category: angst, deathfic, depressive, hints of shonen-ai
Disclaimer: gw not mine. story mine. depressing.
Rating: PG-13 or R. i dunno... you decide.
I bring the razor down in a swift slice across the already crossed wrist. And I admire my handiwork as the blood seeps out. The lattice-work on the underarm resembles a tic-tac-toe board, much like the one Duo showed me a few weeks ago.
It hurts but I feel it. I feel it more than any other pain right now and that's what I need.
Perfect Soldier my ass. They say Duo wears the masks and you can never tell. Has anyone ever known I've worn a mask?
Perfect... yes, Perfectly insane. Crazy. Stupid. Everything I've called Duo at some point and I'm sure he's thrown the same adjectives and appellations back at me. So true. If he only knew how true every one of those words had been. Would it have saved me? I doubt it. Only temporary reprieve. Like this is.
The perfectly tiled floor is getting splotched and for a moment, I feel tremendously guilty. Quatre has been so kind as to invite us all into his home and how do I repay him? By bleeding on his bathroom floor. Wonderful. Another Perfect act by the Perfect Soldier.
I wonder if we all bleed in the exact same shade of red.
And I can feel the fiery burning pain that lances through my veins and through my arm and through the nerves that are crying because I'm killing them.
Like I've killed so many.
I looked directly into the mirror. There is nothing different about my face, right down to the cold, emotionless eyes. Even as I leech my life out of myself, I cannot feel emotion. What am I worth if I can't feel?
I cut again.
I can feel. I can feel this.
And I cut.
I have to cut deeper. This does nothing. This only makes a mess Quatre will scold me for. And Duo. Duo will take me in his arms and offer his sympathy and his pity and call me an idiot. I can't take that. I have to cut deeper.
War is only one facet of life, but it's the only life I've known. I can't live normally. Normally includes laughing, smiling, crying, and loving, doesn't it?
This is a better alternative. Better than pretending to live, but being dead inside, because I simply do not know how to live. Take it all away in one flash of pain, instead of a prolonged pain that does nothing but tear us all apart.
He will survive. I can see it in his eyes. Underneath those masks is still a face that will survive. I know he understands life and how to live. I know he'll find a way to be all right and come out on top.
If only he would help me.
But I don't need his pity or his help. I am the Perfect Soldier, and I work alone. Always alone.
Is this the way it's supposed to be? Probably. As I see no other way before me. But I was trained in war strategy, not in ways to live, not in ways to see decisions and choices in real life. Would I ever understand.
It hurts. But I've been wounded far beyond this. It's nothing compared to being nearly sliced in half or having several bones broken and needing to reset them. That was more than this; this is nothing.
It's not what's outside that hurts right now, it's what's inside.
And I don't understand what I'm going through inside. A tumult of things that must be emotions but I've never experienced them before. What are these feelings tearing through me and make me want to tear myself apart in their agony?
I don't want to restart. I don't want to see how incapable I am in mission: real world. I have never voluntarily failed a mission, but here I will have to decline.
I never managed to successfully self-destruct before.
I will now.
And he slid to the floor, surrounded in a pool of blood, in an otherwise immaculate bathroom.
"Suki da, Duo," he rasped. "And that is why I must go. This is your mission, not mine."