Notes: English is not my first language, so sorry for any grammar mistakes. Please review and comment, I need criticism!

The original link of this fanfiction is from EFP fanfiction, always wrote by me. I hope you'll enjoy this first chapter. I decided to translate it since looks like the Italian fandom does no more exist.

As always, I don't own Professor Layton e compagnia bella. It's Level 5's. Just deal the fact.

Hershel Layton POV

Not even today Angela's come at school. It's been two week of absence. Two week since... Randall's disappearance. Two week since our hands slipped because of sweat and fear. The last time I saw Angela was when I came back from Akbadain. Then, nothing: she told me what she had to say and ran to her home. Henry looked at me sympathetically, but he didn't utter a word to me. Mr Ascot... slapped me. He was going to do more if it wasn't for Ma. I deserved another slap. And something else...

After some day from... the incident (that's how Ma and Pa call it) I came back at school. Staying here is killing me-my classmates speak ill of me in my back, but they don't dare to utter a word when I walk past them. If I ask anything to the teachers, they answer me unwillingly, with short sentences, with an expression that shows their rage and frustration for my presence, like if I'm a burden for them. I can even go in the restroom without asking! They don't react at all! I often go there, more for hiding myself-being in the classroom makes me sick. But the silence doesn't help, on the contrary, it can't stop my... regrets. Randall's fall, Angela's desperation, Mr Ascot's wrath... everything happened so fast.

If only I had been able to reason with him. If only I hadn't been with him, he wouldn't have entered in those ruins. He would have called me a killjoy, but at least Stansbury wouldn't have called me a killer... If only I had never came here at Stansbury, there wouldn't have been all this grief. Angela is suffering more than anyone else-her parents encourage her to be married, but love loss is too much for her. She trusted me. I promised to protect him by any cost. Even Henry is agonising-the Ascots fired him, leaving him to himself. After he lost who was like a brother. Because of me. My par- the Laytons are suffering for my silence. If only I had managed to save him, if only I hadn't activated the trap. If only... it had been me instead of him.

Angela is right in hating me-I never poured a single tear. And now...? I'm at school, in front of the mirror and I just see a plain and pale figure, almost camouflaged with the walls, that is weeping a lot of tears.
Preposterous.

I watch the drops falling in the sink.
They disappeared. I want to be transparent like water.
How much I want to die.

I don't deserve this air I'm breathing-it's Randall's and other's.

I press the razor in my hand. My fingers are bleeding, but tears are not for the pain; the tremor, the sweat and the nausea define the real reason: I'm scared.

"Idiot, you're just a coward. Do you even dare to cry for this?!" I punish myself with a slap.
Now there is a red mark on my cheek, more visible because of the pale skin.

Then I rise my right hand and extend the opposite arm. I start tracking some straight lines, then other and other ones, deeper and more accurate, more painful, as if I'm writing a testament. I'm loosing more and more blood, spilling some in the once clean room.
It was so bright. I wonder how much time janitors take for cleaning it and for-

"Don't get distracted."

Now I focus on the other arm. It's more difficult, since the arm can't stop trembling, and with it my mind, too heavy of thoughts. I manage tracking few cuts on that arm, I want to focus on my throat. I'm tired, I'm panting, but that's not going to stop me. I rise the arm where my throat is. Yes, I must. But I halt.

"What are you waiting for? Go on!" I bring near the blade slowly. "Do a favour to the world and END YOURSELF!"

I attack the throat suddenly, instinctively. Everything is slower, lighter and heavy at the same time. I starve for air but I don't care: I don't own the oxygen. I leave myself victim of the external forces. I don't oppose resistance. The world is upside out and then a thump. A blow on the head that hits all the nerves. I've just reached the end. I've finished all my tears.

Surely someone has heard the blow, otherwise I can't explain those foot steps that hammer my temples. Whoever it is will find a pathetic scenario: the killer had some guilt feelings and decided to end himself. Coward.

The shadow on the corner is shorter, showing the owner of the dark figure: Alphonse Dalston.
He doesn't look happy, on the contrary, staring at the blood his pupils widen for the horror. He runs towards me, he doesn't stop some tears running from the corner of his eyes. He fingers my ruined whist and hears the heartbeat.

«Hershel... what have you done...»
What are you crying for?
«Hershel, can you hear me?»

I don't want to answer, but even if I want to, my body is rigid, making every movement impossible. But other footsteps and figures are approaching-there are some students... or teachers. I can't recognize those stains in front of the door.

Alphonse turns at them. «Call an ambulance.» says sternly.

I hear some incomprehensible buzzes coming from there.

«So?!» He takes a towel and press on the cut on the throat. Its surface is rough, it scratches it, the wound brings more pain.

Those figures are disappearing. Eyelids are heaver, the light too bright.
«Shh... everything is going to be alright. It's going to be fixed.» That stain ensures me with the exact same words Ma told me two weeks ago, but it's pointless-the breathing is limited but stable, eyelids are falling shut. I can't make in time to hear the sirens that I lose consciousness.

Thanks again for reading this! 'Til next time!