God damn it, she's killing me!" he screamed. It pierced the empty halls of the castle, burning through the soft ice that it was composed of. It hurt, and if hurt him, it hurt everyone, because his pain was everyone else's too.
"My lord Ryuma, it would be easier if you gave up, it wouldn't be so painful," Unga said in response. She had heard this for days, for as long as he had been pursuing her. She was sick of his constant depression and waited for the same answer he always gave her.
"No! I couldn't! I'm not weak like that," Ryuma said miserably. The truth was, he was weak like that, but he had to prove a point. A point he could withstand anything, a point the human beast could not mock him, could not break him down. "I'll…I'll be in my room. Don't disturb me," he snarled. He was upset, confused, depressed, anything love could ever make you if you knew you weren't loved back. And one thing one for certain: no one loved Ryuma back.
He slammed the door to his familiar room, dark and lit with a few candles on the walls like miniature chandeliers. His bed was the traditional four-poster bed, but instead of his room adorned in blue and icy colors like everyone would expect, him room was a solid black. Almost everything was black, and what wasn't black was gold. It was a rusty gold though, for he refused everything and anything resembling a cheerful ambiance. His room seemed to be a black abyss, with only his bed, a black and gold vanity, and a black and gold desk with things to write with on it. And everywhere, on the floors, on the desk, even on the walls and insides of the door were poems. They did not cover up all the black paint on the wall, but they covered most of it, shrouding the room in a morbid, gothic writing, all written by Ryuma himself. No one knew this, any of it, of the black room, of the candles or of the poems, for no one had ever gone into Ryuma's room ever before except for him.
Now as usual, after he finished ranting about Yakumo, his real honest feelings still bottled up inside, he walked towards another door and stepped into his bathroom, just a basic white bathroom covered in filth, like a white hospital bathroom that has been worn down by years of service. He sat down on the stool in front of his mirror and, as with as much disdain as ever, looked at himself. His flawless face, usually bright and full of spark and finesse, now appeared groggy and depressed, as did the rest of him. The circles under his eyes never went away, no matter how much eye liner he put on after his sleepless nights.
After a while of just staring into his own empty eyes, he reached down to the third drawer as he always did and gazed lovingly at the familiar friends lying there. Hello, knife. Hello, detail blade. Hello good friends. How have you been? It's been a while, hasn't it? He lifted the knife and held it up to the light, admiring how it glistened and shone. He admired the simple object for being everything he could not, for inflicting such pain with a simple touch. He often wished he could be a knife, vengeful for no appearent reason, but then he realized it could never happen. Reality sunk in and nothing could ever happen. It was all impossible, nothing you could ever dream could ever happen.
It all sunk in now, even the knife.
The scars were just scars, but they meant so much more. So much more that he had to keep masking them. These carvings, these cravings, for blood and lust, made him just grit his teeth and slice faster. Bright red death spurted on his face and the mirror, every motion spreading it even further. After the first few, it all felt so easy. The teeth he were gritting turned into a grisly smile, the Red Death gliding over his arms. But he didn't want to stop. It was near the time, near the time he would have stopped, but he didn't, he couldn't. His grin turned into a gaping hole, realizing this was it. He couldn't stop himself, it had finally come. This was it. Finally, it was gone, all done, and with the final deep cut across his chest and into his lungs, he stared into the mirror, covered in death. He looked into his own eyes, his own horrible mistake.
All of it sunk in.
He could never find love,
Love could never find him,
And it all sunk in.
Even the knife.
Cough.