Author's Note: I wrote this one-shot for Halloween. However, it is not Halloween-themed in anyway. Thanks to my Beta reader, Fade from the Light for reading, editing, and naming the story. Any Reviews for grammar or spelling mistakes are much appreciated. I hope you like my new style of writing.

"it's hard to sleep

when your heart is

at war

with your mind."

-r.h. Sin

Luke wished he had never cared. His hair whipped into his eyes, his facial features determined. It would make this so much easier. He didn't want to remember, but the memories came rushing back.

He tried to run away from the looming, tall figure. He had to kill Darth Vader, his own father. The figure stalked behind him, blocking his pitiful attempts to attack him. He laughed dryly and chugged some drink, alcohol he assumed. He didn't know what it was, but he didn't care anymore. He knew that Leia had left with their friends, except Han, to escape. Luke knew he could not defeat Vader; after all, Luke was only a half-baked Jedi Padawan, if even that.

Sometimes, Luke wished he hadn't stayed. He wished he hadn't left Tatooine, dreamed of leaving. He had been impatient with his eyes focused on the skyline. He had brushed off the times Uncle Owen and Aunt Beru would buy him model ships, chuckled when he told them he dreamed of being a podracer, and all the times, they watched races with him. Luke hadn't cherished his family. For all Uncle Owens's faults, he had never failed to love Luke as if he was his own son.

He distantly wondered if Uncle Owen had worried he would share a similar fate as his father, Anakin Skywalker. He decided that he would rather think about that later. He swigged more alcohol. It was too much for him to handle all at once. Luke was drowning within his head. He smiled darkly at the night sky, resisting the urge to destroy something.

He wished he hadn't been so naive, so foolish, so impulsive. So much like his own father, according to Uncle Owen. The words Uncle Owen had said almost seemed condemning. Always running head first into danger. However, Luke Skywalker vowed that would not happen with Han. It had been his fault Han had been captured in this first place, all the pain he caused Lando, Chewbacca, and Leia. All his fault. He chugged more alcohol.

The poster boy of the Rebellion, the so-called Jedi, the hero of the Battle of Yavin… Luke chuckled humorlessly. What good did any of these titles do him now? He had failed to save Han, and Vader had been revealed to be his own father. He wished…

He closed his eyes. There was no point in wishing anymore. No point in anything... He sighed. His head was threatening to crumble into a million pieces, just like his heart. Every piece told him something different. One told him to accept his father and to forgive him, while another told to kill him. The darker side of Luke dreamed of torturing him the same way Vader had his friends. Hearing him shriek in agony, his voice pleading him to stop, watching the light fade out of his eyes…

Luke shuddered at those dark thoughts. No one deserved that, not even Vader. Not to mention, Vader would never allow his enemies the satisfaction of cries of pain, groveling, or his demise. Vader would slaughter them all before they had the chance. He wondered if Vader had killed his mother or if he regretted killing Ben. After all, he had once loved Padme and cared for Ben.

Luke swigged more alcohol. He wondered if it mattered anymore. He wondered if Vader was really a monster. But he recalled the way Vader had been reluctantly fighting back, only defending himself. The way he seemed sincere in his offer. He had desperately wanted to nod and accept his offer. He had always craved the attention of his father. Hearing stories of the Hero with No Fear had only strengthened his desire to find him.

And found him, Luke had. Vader hadn't been what Luke expected. He had been searching for a Jedi Knight, a hero, and most importantly, a father. However, Vader was a Sith Lord, neither a father nor a hero anymore. A small shred of Luke believed in Vader. His sliver of hope believed Vader would make the right choice. He chugged more alcohol.

Well, Vader seemed incapable of love, mercy, or compassion: the traits that ultimately made someone human. He smiled grimly. Vader had stamped out any childlike faith he had in his father, crushed his hopes and dreams. Why doesn't someone award him the Father of the Year award?

Ever since the fight at Cloud City, his life seemed to be going down in a downward spiral. His once vivid memories couldn't bring back the happy times with Han, Leia, and Wedge. He had clung to the remnants of his former routine and thrown himself into the Rebellion. Wedge sneaked him worried glances, obviously concerned and wondering what was wrong with their poster boy. He laughed bitterly, reaching for the alcohol. He chugged some more. All of them worried about him: their perfect little poster boy. He wasn't anything more than a title, a label.

He longed for the comfort of Leia, Han, or even Lando. It was his fault they weren't here. He leaned his head against the wall. I guess what they say is true: misery loves company. He wondered if Vader felt lonely. Most likely. After all, he seemed to have no one, minus the Emperor, even as just an ally. A sad existence, Aunt Beru had once said, is to be lonely when surrounded by people. Aunt Beru was once been the wisest person he had known.

Aunt Beru and Uncle Owen were killed by stormtroopers because of his choices. How he wished he had stopped to think about his family. Perhaps it would have happened differently. But Luke wasn't all alone. He had Vader-

Vader was hardly what someone would call family. Darth Vader had caused Luke plenty of pain. Imagine a man was drowning and someone dropped a weight on his head. Not all of this was Vader's fault, but a majority of it was a direct result. He wondered if Vader would be proud of how he wrecked his son's heart and brain, ripping his life apart. He smashed the alcohol bottle on the roof floor. Shards of glass covered the pavement, reminding his of his heart. Not in a literal sense, it reminded him of the figurative way of feeling one's heart break into a million pieces.

His tan hands were calloused and normal. Luke briefly wondered if he was cursed. His mother had been killed, maybe by his own father, his uncle and aunt were dead, Bigg's death, his grandparents died before he knew them, Leia grieving, Han frozen, and Vader a Sith. His hands, like the rest of him, seemed normal and fine. However, appearances can be rather misleading; facades can hide more than a person can think. Everyone around him suffered because of him. All his fault. Always his.

When Leia first brought him back to the Rebel Alliance, General Dodonna, General Rieekan, and Mon Mothma had discussed the situation in hushed voices. They had let Leia bring him to the med center and allowed him to be given a surrogate hand. Eventually, Mon took him aside and asked him on his Jedi training. He had been shocked speechless, and she just dismissed him with an all-too-knowing smile.

All the problems eventually just plied up, smothering him. He wondered if Ben would have ever told him Vader was his father.

Probably not, my son. His heart froze in terror. Luke nearly spazzed against the wall. Yet some part of Luke was comforted at his presence within his mind.

You've never reached out to me before. He refused to call Vader father. He didn't deserve-

You've never really needed me before. Vader's so-called voice seemed twinged with sadness and pride. A spark of happiness erupted within his chest. Surprised, he opened his eyes and stared at the night sky. For months, Luke had been emotionally numb and felt next to nothing. Besides, I didn't know you existed before you blew up the Death Star.