Fandom: Gundam Wing
Categories: Agonizing Anguish, Shadows of Dread, Bleeding Hearts,
Pairing: 3x4 Quatre and Trowa
Warnings: Shonen Ai, depression, self-mutilation, suicide
Disclaimer: I don't own anything but the words of this story. Don't own the characters, series, or anything like that. Rub it in, why don't ya?!
Summary: Quatre is traumatized on a mission and in the aftershocks of the event, chases his tormentor. When he finally kills him, he discovers that he actually killed the wrong person. Now he must deal with what happened to him, what he did and what he is doing now.
Notes: This was intended to be a one-shot. Someone inspired me to do otherwise...
~ ~ ~ ~
Suddenly my body is numb and I can’t tell what’s going on. I forget where I am and the world around me blurs into a black mist. Whatever happened is suddenly wiped from my mind and I can hardly think. It’s as if I’m waking from a dream; it’s like that moment, just as the dream is being banished and your mind is slowly regaining consciousness, that time when what you see can’t be determined to be real or not, when everything blends together and your so confused about what is happening. It’s that incredibly brief moment when you can’t tell what’s happening.
My senses seem to be taking a vacation. I can’t see anything at all for a moment. Can’t see. Can’t feel. I’m so numb.
Then everything comes back into focus. A thunderous clap floods my ears. The loud and deep bang of the gun rumbles in my chest. I can feel my hands, tightly clasped around the handle of the gun, my fingers cramping forcefully. My heart beats amazingly fast and intense. I can feel my body twitching from the adrenaline that’s coursing through my veins. The searing energy is trapped in my body with no way to escape. I start to shiver, though my grip on the gun doesn’t falter. The smell of the gun being fired invades my nostrils. My throat is so tight; my tongue seems coated with the taste of bile. I think I’m going to be sick.
Then the sight of what is happening hits me. I see the gun in my hand. I see that I am holding the weapon so tight that my knuckles are turning white. My eyes travel past my paled fingers and past the hot gun. I watch as the body collapses onto the ground with a muffled thud.
The body is a man. He lies face down on the pavement, limbs weakly fallen to his sides. Then a thick, frightening river of blood emerges from beneath him. Deep red, almost black blood leaves his body from a hole in his head; the hole where the bullet entered.
The smell of the blood reaches me and my unoccupied hand reaches up to cover my nose and mouth.
It is then that I drop the gun. My knees are abruptly too weak to hold me up and I sink to kneel beside the man lying before me. He’s dead. I just killed him. I have killed so many people, but not like this... not at all like this.
Somehow his head is now lying on its side and I can see that he is not even the person I was after. I just killed a man. The wrong man. An innocent man.
The numbness returns. I lean my head back, looking up to the gray sky. It’s just the sky.
My heart is now fifty pounds heavier than before. The weight of it all comes rushing in on me to bombard my soul with thousands of spears. I feel my heart ripping, the tearing of it is so real to me I can almost hear it. I just killed someone, an innocent someone, in cold blood. The images take over my vision. I put the gun right to his forehead, not pausing to think that I was wrong, and pulled the trigger. All the senses I felt come rushing back and I lower my head into my hands.
“Quatre…” I hear Trowa hurry to my side, reaching out to pull me close. His large hands hastily pull me away from the bleeding body, holding me close to his chest. He backs away, grasping me close, until his back is leaning against the brick wall. He tries to pull me even closer, but something comes over me and I push him away.
I look at Trowa and realization hits me again. I’m only eighteen. My life was just getting started. I finally found my way to Trowa and then I do this. I kill someone. I just threw everything away. Every dream I ever had, every wish to live with Trowa forever, everything… gone. My eyes are drawn back to the man that I killed. Oh, God.
I feel Trowa trying to bring me back into his arms, but I fight him off. I want to tell him to go away. To leave me alone. To forget me and get on with his life. I want him to forget me. I want him to leave, but he doesn’t. He ignores my fights and holds me so that I can’t push him away.
A strong shiver jolts down my spine and my body starts to ache. I don’t want him to hold me… not after this. I can face this on my own. I killed someone. I killed someone. I killed someone.
I am strong enough to take responsibility for my actions. But I find myself holding onto him for dear life now. My grip on him just as strong as it was on the gun not too long ago. I don’t want to face it. I don’t want to die. The pain in my body is so strong. I feel like my soul is trying to break out of my body through every pore.
I picture everything from Heaven and Hell coming after me. All coming to take me down to burn for all eternity. I can see thunder and lightning surrounding me. Faces of demons glare at and reach out to me and I hold tighter to Trowa, as if he could stop them all and protect me. I’m so scared now. I feel so weak and vulnerable, but no matter how much I would like to stop time, I know I couldn’t run from this.
I killed someone. Oh, God…
I don’t know how long we have been sitting here. I try to pull away, to look at Trowa’s face, but he holds me firmly. His arms won't budge, so neither can I.
I wish he would just let me go. I want to scream, to tell him to go away, but I can’t. I hate this. I am feeling guilty and I hate it. I have killed so many people and I have come to terms with it all. Why is this having such an effect on me? God, I wish I just could… disappear right now. I’m getting angry with myself for being so stupid. I can’t understand why I am reacting this way and it frustrates me to be so confused.
But I just become numb again. What else is there to do? Nothing matters anymore. The world blurs. I am no longer in the alley, being held by the one I love. I am just floating. I can’t feel anything; my body has gone so numb. Nothing matters anymore.
~ ~ ~ ~
My heart seems frozen in time. Everything in my body is so numb. It has stayed numb since the other day. My body doesn’t seem to react to anything and my mind is so blank. I can’t tell for sure what I look like, but I can feel my face and it hasn’t changed with any expression in a while. I don’t necessarily like it, but it’s better than feeling, I suppose. I don’t think I could handle that, even with Trowa holding me.
We’re lying in bed, his arm draped over me. I’m not facing him. I can’t. He has tried to talk to me, but thankfully he understands that I need time. A lot of time. The memory of what I did is still fresh in my mind as if it just happened. I can still feel the gun in my hand, see the body on the ground, smell the blood.
I don’t want to think about it, but it’s not something can be easily forgotten. I wish with all of my dull heart that it was.
I can feel Trowa, warm against my back. His breath is hot and moist on my neck. It’s a welcome feeling. Something my body recognizes and acknowledges. His arm is heavily draped over my side and my hand is held in his. The hand that held the gun, the hand that pulled the trigger and…
No. Stop it.
I don’t want to think about it. I close my eyes as tight as I can, trying to will away the senses of the memories. It doesn’t work too well. I can see the body fall to the ground on the back of my eyelids. I open them back up and I look out the window, trying desperately to distract myself.
Oh, look, grass. Interesting… Why do I even bother?
This is why I hate weekends. It’s the morning and I have nothing to do but think. No task to distracts myself with and I’m sure that even if I wanted to get up and try to do something, Trowa’s arm would tighten and prevent me from getting out of bed. I appreciate his concern, and I know what happened scared him too, but sometimes I wish he would just back off.
Sometimes I wish he would let me deal with it all on my own. I accept what I did and what happened. Don’t I? I murdered someone. I remember the swarm in my head that overtook me before I shot him. Fear and pain and anxiety and hatred... all devoured my senses and took over my body. The next thing I knew, the overwhelming emotions had me chasing after t he man who had hurt me. Then those memories arose. I remember what he did...
No. Not going to think about that. Not now.
Hmm… look at that grass…
The thoughts don’t leave no matter how hard I try to make them. It’s like they’ve been burned into the backs of my eyelids, photographed by my head so that every time I close my eyes, I see what I do not want to see ever again. My chest starts to hurt; the feeling is coming back. A splitting pain tears at my heart, the pain shooting through my body. I wish the numbness would return.
God, I hate feeling like this!
Trowa’s awake now, holding me tighter. I think he said something but I’m really not listening right now. I just want the numbness to come back. The pain, the feeling of it, is too much. I killed a man. An innocent man. So what happened to the guilty man? I don’t know. I hope he’s dead. I hope that he was tortured and…
What he did does not matter. I shouldn’t have done what I did. There is no excuse. I killed someone - the wrong someone - and there is no excuse for it.
~ ~ ~ ~
The bed is cold now. Trowa’s no longer in the bed and I am left alone to continue my self-loathing thoughts. He left me not too long ago but already the warmth that he brought to the bed has faded away. All I have now is the comforter. It’s warm enough, but it’s not the same.
It’s the afternoon now and the sun is peaking through the open blinds, casting stripes across the bed and me.
How is it so cold in here?
I can hear Trowa talking in the next room. His voice is low, as if he doesn’t want me to hear what he’s saying. But I can anyway. It sounds like he’s on the phone; I only hear his side of the conversation.
I wonder whom he’s talking to.
“Yeah… Wufei, hi…”
Oh. Him. Now I know why he’s keeping his voice low.
“No… I don’t know, he’s just… yeah.”
I know whom he’s talking about, too.
“No, I think we’ll need at least two weeks… thanks.”
Two weeks? Two weeks for what?
“Yeah… I know… I don’t know, he won’t talk to me. He won’t talk at all… I know. I know. I’ll try. Thanks, Wufei, bye.”
I hear the receiver lightly return to its place on the jack and I can feel him reenter the room. His footsteps move lightly across the floor and then I can feel the bed shift as he returns to his place behind me. He returns his hold on me, spooning so that he is once again grasping The Hand.
I thought I don’t talk at all. Why would I respond? So I don’t.
I hear him release a long sigh and then settle back into the bed. His warmth has returned, chasing away the cold numbness of the room. I think he’s drifting to sleep, but I can’t be sure. I wish he were a deep sleeper. Even when he’s so exhausted he falls asleep in the living room, he still reawakens at the drop of a pin. Damn, I wish he would just go away for a while.
“Quatre…” He’s still awake. I don’t really even need to listen to know what he’s going to say, he’s been saying it repeatedly for the past few days. “I’m here and I‘m not going anywhere. You can talk to me about it, you know that.” He then falls silent for a few moments, leaving me to think that he would leave it at that this time. No such luck.
“Quatre, please talk to me…” No. “Please?” No.
I don’t want to talk to you. My mind wills him to disappear. I just want him to leave. I can’t talk to him; he’ll just continue to say things like that. He’ll try to comfort me and hold me and console me and tell me that it’s all going to be ok. I don’t want to hear that right now, I can’t. Please go away, please go away…
“I just called us into the Preventers. Wufei is giving us about two weeks off, because of the mission…” he says. Great, two weeks of lying in bed, thinking about it all. ”I love you,” he adds no more than a whisper and I feel my heart jerk within my chest. I just want him to go away! Please…
My eyes are swelling with tears, the ones that I have prevented from falling for the past few days. The stress is building in my head and I don’t know how I’m going to hold them off any longer. I guess now is as long as I can go. A tear escapes and travels down my cheek. I close my eyes tight to stop more tears from following and thankfully, it works.
I can’t deal with this. I just want it all to stop.
~ ~ ~ ~
I am finally up and doing something other than going to the bathroom. Granted, it’s only doing the dishes, but it’s enough to distract me… for now. Trowa is in the other room doing something. I don’t know exactly what, nor do I care. As long as he’s out of my hair for a few minutes.
It’s been a week since he called us in to the Preventers. One more week to go then I can go back to work and have something that will take up more of my attention.
Almost in a cadence, I grab a dish from the sink, rinse it with hot water, scrub away the residue and put it in the dishwasher. They can build numerous space colonies and learn to manipulate Gundanium alloy, yet a dishwasher that can actually clean the dishes itself is too much to ask. I don’t understand why one must wash the dishes before putting them in the dishwasher.
At the moment I am thankful for the tedious work, though. I have to think about that strange looking piece of green stuff on this bowl and not about… other things.
The green grime finally comes off and I put the bowl in the rack, reaching for my next task, a cup, with my other hand. I pick it up, but with the rubber gloves and the wet surfaces, the glass falls out of my grasp and plunges to the floor. I don’t have enough time to catch it before it smashes onto the linoleum and shards of sparkling glass fly everywhere. A loud crash accompanies the shattering, one that, for some reason, makes me jump.
When the room goes still again, I kneel down and begin to gather the shards into a pile to throw away. Trowa must have heard the shattering because he’s standing in the kitchen doorway, looking at the massacre of glass at my feet.
I am about to tell him that I got it, but he rushes across the room to me. “Are you ok?” he asks with frightened urgency.
I want to punch him. Just because I drop a glass doesn’t mean he has to come running to save me and even if I was hurt, I could deal with it myself. I really wish I had the guts to deck him, but all I can manage is a nod. I go back to my task of cleaning up the mess, but Trowa’s hands stop me.
“I’ll clean it up, go rest in the living room.”
“No, I can clean it up,” I manage to say, but he shakes his head.
“Go, I’ll take care of it.”
“No,” I say a little louder, “I made the mess, I will clean it up.”
“I just want to help…”
“Well stop trying to help, Trowa! I don’t need it!”
“I’m sorry, I just….”
“No,” I cut him off as the anger in me escalates. “Just… stop.” And with that, all the energy leaves my body. I plop back and sit down, leaning against the cabinets. What is wrong with me? I can’t control it as my heart speeds up, I start breathing harder and my eyes swell with tears.
“Quatre, it’s ok…” Trowa moves to comfort me, but I put my hand out against him.
“Stop! I don’t need your help!”
It doesn’t work and Trowa brings me into his arms, holding too tight for me to escape. Suddenly all my strength is gone and I clasp onto him the way I did in the alley that night. I don’t want to think about it but my mind wanders and the memories come back, enforcing the flow of tears down my face. This is the first time I have cried in a long time. The first time I have cried over this. The stress slowly evaporates as I cry against Trowa’s shirt.
I wish I could tell him. I wish my mouth would cooperate and tell him what happened and why I am so shaken. But I also don’t want to tell him… I don’t want to even think about it. So I stop.
I don’t know how long we sat in the kitchen, surrounded by broken glass, but it was long enough to help me relax a little. Enough to even fall asleep in his arms. Maybe it can be ok…
~ ~ ~ ~
I walk into the Preventers office for the first time in two weeks and all the strength I gathered throughout the morning simply leaves me. Trowa and I stand in the doorway for a split second and I take in the scene that I had wanted to return to, but now want desperately to leave. People are roaming between desks delivering papers and files as those who are sitting type mindlessly on the computers. A phone rings and someone quickly answers as someone else picks up their own phone to make a call.
I follow Trowa as we head up to our offices. People I know wave at me, welcoming me back, and I respond with a fake but convincing smile.
We finally reach our department’s lobby where Heero is sitting behind the large oak desk. He stands when he notices us enter. “Hi, Trowa. Welcome back, Quatre.” He picks up a manila folder from the desk and holds it out to me.
“Thanks,” I smile at him and take the file.
“That’s the paperwork you need to fill out for your report on the Sanctese mission.”
“Ok,” I reply as I start flipping through the pages, eyeing the lines and questions and judging how long it will take. “See ya later, Heero.”
I turn down the hall, leaving Trowa and Heero back in the lobby. Finally returning to my routine, I unlock my office door, throw my keys on the desk, drop the folder down next to them, take my coat off and fall into my chair.
For a moment, I close my eyes and try to gather my wits. Stress of coming back after so long and having to fill out paperwork - which I hate - and trying to disguise myself to seem happy and trying to get Trowa off my back all weigh heavily on my shoulders. At least I’m out of the house. I’m glad to be back… I guess. I take a deep breath and slowly release it before rubbing my eyes and scooting up to the desk to start my work.
I open the folder and take out the first bit of papers while grabbing a pen from the holder. Ok, here we go. Name… Code… blah blah blah…
I fill out the first half of the form without even thinking. Why don’t they just preprint all this stuff ahead of time?
After what seems to short a time, I get to the stuff I’ve been dreading. Mission summary… They give us three pages to fill out with as many details as needed. I don’t want to do this. I don’t want to think about it let alone write it out for others to read later.
A chill shoots down my spine as I start to think about what I can put down without revealing… everything. I start to write down the stupid little details from the beginning. What time we left, what time we arrived at the warehouse, what happened when we got there, what time I went in…
I don’t want to write further. I don’t want to think about what happened after that, but like they have been doing lately, the memories rush through my mind against my will. I see only the darkness in front of me… I feel the pain in my head, the heat on my skin… I can smell the blood… I can hear the man talking to me, taunting me… I can taste the blood in my mouth and the bile that seemed to be rising in my stomach… Then the emotions returned. The fear and disparity and sorrow and hatred and urgency…
No. Stop it. I try to move on, but I still remember. The pain… oh, God. No, I won’t think about this. Not now. Not ever.
So I skip to the part they want to know about.
I write down how I chased the terrorist on foot for at least five miles and what time that was. I write how I chased him into the alley, lost sight of him, then caught up to what I thought was him a second later. I write how I thought it was him, how I shot him… in the head… and how I didn’t realize until afterward that it wasn’t who I was after.
I read over it to see if I missed anything and my eyes involuntarily stop on the spot where the information was left out. The memories flood back to me and I have to drop the pen to hold my face in my hands. Oh God…
I shake my head, clench my eyes tightly shut and try to force away the headache that is growing in my head. Why won’t it just stop? Why can’t I forget the things I don’t want to remember? It’s my mind, why won’t it do the fuck what I want it to?! I’m starting to get frustrated and now I’m beginning to think it was a bad idea to come back so soon. I just wanted to get out of that damn house, but I didn’t want to relive the mission. That’s the last thing I wanted.
I finally decide that it’s good enough and leave my office, packed up and report ready to turn in. I drop it off with Heero, barely saying a word to him. I find Trowa and tell him I’m ready to go home.
Thankfully, we leave right away. I just want to get out of here. The headache is getting worse…
~ ~ ~ ~
My head is pounding by the time I walk through the door and I proceed immediately to the bathroom to get some ibuprofen. My mind is still fairly numb from the memories of that night. The remembrance of the pain and agony causes the throbbing of my brain to continue.
When I reach the bathroom, I close and lock the door behind me. Leaning on the sink, I close my eyes, breathing deeply and try to relax myself. It works… until I look up and see my reflection in the mirror. I don’t even see anything. Just a shell. I don’t want to be cliché, but I look like I feel - dead inside.
The events of that night, the ones far before I killed the wrong guy… It’s just too painful to think about. Guilt is what my mind seems to be focused on as well as my own torture. I think about what that man, the guilty man, did to me psychologically that made me chase him the way I did. What made me so uncontrolled that I proceeded to shoot who I thought was him right in the forehead.
Just with one night, my entire life changed and now… now I don’t even know what is going on with myself. I barely feel anything anymore. My mind has gone so numb. Sometimes I am happy it has; I don’t have to feel the pain of the memories. But other times, I wish with my entire soul that I would feel something, anything at all. Times like now.
Releasing a small breath, I open the cabinet and snatch the bottle of pain pills from the shelf. There is a small rustle and clinking as a box of shaving razors falls from the cabinet. A few of the metal pieces tumble out of the box, spreading all over the sink.
I let out an exasperated sigh and firmly set the ibuprofen bottle down.
I pick up the razors, but the last one cuts my hand as I try to place it in the box. The stinging begins and I hold my other hand tightly to the cut, trying to stop the bleeding. It’s only a small cut, but those are often the one that sting the most.
I clench my eyes shut. The bit of pain the cut causes brings back memories like everything seems to be doing today. Not just memories of pain from that night, but thoughts of an old habit rush in as well. I don’t want to think about it.
The bleeding has stopped and I shake my hand to numb it as I place the box of razors back in the cabinet with my other.
I down three small red pills and leave the bathroom before I give in to the wanting that grows in me. My mind tells me to turn around and take the box out again, but I refuse to. What’s the point anymore?
~ ~ ~ ~
Weeks have passed since The Night. I have managed to avoid thinking about it in too much detail and I had hoped that that would last forever. I don’t think I can handle it.
Trowa has tried off and on to get me to talk to him, to get me to tell him anything… but I can’t. I won’t let myself. I just don’t want to. He’s trying right now.
“Quatre…” he pleads, “Talk to me.”
“Quatre.” His voice is more firm now; I think I’m frustrating him. I can’t think of how I am, though. I’m just sitting on the opposite end of the couch, curled up, silently staring at the TV that he turned off moments ago.
“Quatre.” His voice is harsher now and he moves to sit right next to me. I don’t move at all, just continue to stare. I don’t want to talk to him and usually, when he tries to get me to talk, I can avoid it by staying silent. It doesn’t seem to be working this time.
He turns my head with his hand, forcing me to look at him. “Quatre. Please talk to me…” His eyes are searching mine, begging me to… I don’t know, just begging.
“I don’t want to talk right now,” I tell him simply and move my head out of his hands.
“You never want to,” he replies, grabbing my face again, “How long are you going to be like this Quatre?”
I don’t answer. I close my eyes, trying to get him to leave me alone and to understand that I don’t - want - to talk - about - it. He doesn’t get the point.
“It wasn’t your fault,” he tries, “You didn’t know, it was a mistake…”
I don’t give him a chance to finish. Instead of listening to him, I stand up and try to walk away. I don’t want to hear this. It was not a mistake, it was my fault and I just have to deal with it. I ran after him. I aimed the gun. I didn’t stop to consider that I might be wrong. I pulled the trigger and I murdered an innocent man. What happened, happened, but the fact that once it was over, I ran after him and killed who I thought was he, is what was wrong. I don’t care what was done to me, I sunk just as low as the man I was after when I aimed that gun.
But he doesn’t know what my mind is focused on most of the time. What happened before I killed that man…
I think for a moment that I can escape it before Trowa grabs my arm and stands up to look me in the eye. “It was not your fault, Quatre - “
“Stop!” I interrupt him before he can finish. “It was my fault, Trowa! Stop saying that it wasn’t! I put the gun to his head! I shot him! It was my fault. Mine!”
“No!” For the first time in, I think ever, Trowa raises his voice. “Stop this, now! It was not your fault, you didn’t have time to stop; you were just doing your job! It was an accident! Quatre, stop putting so much blame on yourself.”
I stare at him for a few moments, not knowing what to say. How can he say all this? If it was a mistake, if it wasn’t my fault, then whose fault is it? There is no one to blame but me, why is he trying to argue that?
“I love you, Quatre. I just want you to talk to me. I want to help you with this, I want to know what happened in that warehouse so that I can help you deal with - “
I can’t listen anymore. I rip my arm from his grasp and almost run to the bathroom.
Leaning my back against the door, I sink to the floor, breathing as best I can. My heart is racing and my mind is full of contending thoughts and feelings. I can feel tears begin to sting my eyes. I don’t want to talk to him about what happened, but I want him to hold me and help me because I don’t think I can do this. Something seems to be preventing me from letting him, though.
I lean my head back and stare up at the ceiling. I lock my eyes closed but tears escape anyway and travel down my cheeks. I sit in the bathroom for a while, attempting to calm myself and the headache comes back.
~ ~ ~ ~
It’s early in the morning, so early that Trowa is still sleeping. I’m sitting in our bedroom’s adjoining bathroom, leaning my back against the bathtub. The house is silent and dark; I hate the quiet. It forces me to acknowledge and listen to the thoughts in my head. I laid in bed for a while before I came in here, having to distract myself.
Of course, my one-track mind brings back the thoughts of that night that changed everything. But this time it’s different. I relive that night in an uninterested numbness. I can remember all the senses, but the emotions that usually accompany them when I remember, don’t emerge. The memories flash through my mind and I don’t even bother to stop them. The only thing I can feel is the darkness that lead me through that night.
It was that same darkness that occupied my mind and made me live through the whole night in a black haze. That whole night, that is, up until that man’s body fell to the ground.
I had lain in bed, staring off into the darkness that is three forty two in the morning. Listening to Trowa breathing behind me, I recognized the strange feeling in my heart. I loved him, but I didn’t. Both feelings at the same time controlled me. Since that night I had been so distant from him, and a part of me is glad for that. I finally decided to get up and come in here, finally giving in to the voice in my head that called for me to return to an old habit.
Thankfully, Mr. Wakes-at-the-drop-of-a-pin remained asleep as I came in here, closed the door behind me and situated myself.
Pain courses through me as I run the razor along my wrist, cutting into the skin and drawing out blood from my veins. I welcome the feeling of familiarity it holds and the relief it brings. I wait, gladly taking the pain as it drives away the numbness that has consumed me for the past few days.
I pull my legs tight to my chest, the bleeding arm extended at my side, and rest my forehead on my knees. Tears overflow and I don’t bother to hold them back.
I am just so fucking confused… A million emotions and contending thoughts swirl inside me and nothing seems to be able to stop them long enough for me to decide anything. Each thought has its own opinion and each one is fighting for control, brewing a war that threatens to split my head in two. A part of me is crying its heart out, trying to get me to stop moving the razor, weeping for the pain that I feel both from before and from now. Another part of me is simply satisfied with the bit of familiarity. Another part deceptively whispers that I should just end it all. Still, another part is screaming at the top of its lungs, yelling at me to go back in the bedroom, wake up Trowa and talk to him. It’s this part that desperately tries to convince me to let him hold me and comfort me and to listen when he says it will all be ok.
But this voice is too overwhelmed. It’s harder to ignore the pain.
Frustrated with my current thought process, I pick up the razor and cut myself again. I take deep breaths and just let the thin stream of blood trickle onto the floor.
~ ~ ~ ~
What’s going on? What is that sound?
A loud banging reaches my ears again and again. I want to turn my head to see what it is, but I suddenly realize that I can’t move. There is no energy in my body and it surprises me that I am so conscious, yet paralyzed. It scares me at the same time.
I can, however immobile the rest of my body seems to be, open my eyes. White. I see a white ceiling. With a light fixture in the middle of it. I know that light fixture. It’s the one in our…
The banging gets louder and it is soon joined by the urgent yelling of a voice. Wait. I know that voice. Why is Trowa yelling? What is that damn banging?
There is an even louder crash and the banging stops. Trowa’s voice is getting closer now and I can feel his hands on me. He sits me up and I can see his face now. He’s almost unreadable, his face being a mixture of so much emotion. Mostly I notice the fear in those green eyes. I want to ask him what’s wrong but my body is still so numb.
Holding my face, he checks my pupils and, seeing that I am ok in that area, proceeds to do something beyond my field of vision. I do however, catch a glimpse of red. Blood. Who’s blood? Mine. Something inside me tells me that it’s my blood and another something registers that that is why I am so weak. But why am I bleeding?
Then there is pressure on my wrists and I remember. Oh, God… what happened? I remember the razor and the… oh, no. I look around frantically, trying to find out something, but all I can see is Trowa’s scared face. His eyebrows are knitted together, his eyes narrow and his face tense and stressed. His face gives off so much emotion it scares me; something very bad must be happening for him to look like this. The fear in me rises.
I can finally see my wrists. One is wrapped tightly in a washcloth while the other is in the process of being wrapped. Trowa’s hands work fast and my mind pieces together that he must have found me like this. Did I pass out?
I can vaguely hear him speaking to me, his frightened voice telling me to hold on. Hold on? Hold on to what? Why? What the hell is going on?
I close my eyes as a small moan escapes my throat. I concentrate and try to remember… I woke up, I was cutting my wrists and then… nothing. I can’t remember anything past that.
I must have passed out. Why else would Trowa be helping my slit wrists? How else would he even know about it unless I passed out in the middle of it. It is one of the few things I was too ashamed of to tell him. He must have woken up and tried to get into the bathroom. I think I remember locking it when I came in. Yes, I must have because he had to bang on the door and, from the sound of it, break the lock to get in. So what does that mean? How long was I lying here?
Panic invades my mind and the only thing I want to do at that moment is stop time and throw myself into Trowa’s scared arms.
I can feel a strong wave of pain shoot through my right arm as he tightens the bandage. It is already soaked in blood, as is the area around it. The pain is too much. Why does it hurt so much? This has happened before, with one of my sisters in Trowa’s place. But the bandages didn’t hurt this much that time. Ah! More pain, only this time it travels up both of my arms at the same time. I feel like my arms are on fire and being sliced by knives at the same time. Why does it hurt so much?
A thought reaches my mind as I feel Trowa picking me up. Did I cut too deep? I am usually so careful about it, but this time I wonder. The pain definitely feels like I cut too deep… and the pool of blood in the bathroom would back that theory.
So what does this mean? Am I going to die? God, I don’t want to die… Almost every feeling a person can have floods my mind. Panic and fear and regret and pain and love and hatred and depression and anxiety and numbness and hopelessness and discontent and… I could go on forever. It all comes as a tidal wave in on my soul, like a thousand daggers ripping at my heart. I think about all that has happened - the warehouse, the murder, the numbness. I think bout all that I did - the murder, the detachment… God, what did I do?
Regret is the strongest of the emotions at this point. Regret for killing the wrong man, but mostly regret for what I put Trowa through. I look up at his urgent face as he moves me to the bed and reaches to the phone. I pushed him so far away, but he still is trying to save me. I held such hatred towards him and even now I don’t know why. I do love him and all I want at this moment is for him to hold me. I want to be near him because I took advantage of him being there for me from the beginning. I regret snapping at him, rolling away from him, fighting him off, ignoring his words of comfort. Most of all I regret not listening to that voice that told me to do all of the above. I have been such an ass.
While when I entered that bathroom I really could have cared less whether or not I died, now, lying on the bed, staining the sheet with my blood and watching Trowa call 911, die is the last thing I want to do.
But a blackness dances on the edge of my vision and I thing I am losing consciousness. The little energy my body seems to hold slowly escapes and, too weak to stay open, my eyes slide shut. I want so badly to open them again and see Trowa’s face, no matter how frightening it is, but I can’t.
I cut too deep. How could I? Now I have absolutely no more energy left and I can’t fight the blackness anymore, so I let it take me.
~ ~ ~ ~