I'm sorry, I know I should be working on my other story but I wanted to post this one while I could. It is another depressing suicidal story, CHARACTER DEATH! I know, I am wierd, but I could't help myself.

Disclaimer: Don't remind me! I know I don't own FMA, just the sucidal

The ground was spattered with blood, her blood. She lay on face down, gun still clutched in her hand. He ran over to her, slowly and gently rolling her over. Brushing a hand through her blond waves, he started crying. Her eyes fluttered briefly, and he whispered, "Riza…Riza I love you! Hang on. Riza!" Her eyes slipped close, and lay unmoving. The screams and gunshots faded into white noise as the two lay there.

Roy woke up, still seeing her lifeless body in his arms. Getting up, he glanced at the clock; it was only 1:00. Moving to his desk, he sat there, remembering the days of Ishbal. How long had it been since her death? 3, 4 years; yet the grief was still raw, and the memories just as clear. He could still see her tawny eyes, the way her blond hair framed her face. It was his fault that she died, at least is what he believed.

If only he hadn't gone down the alley, seeing the Ishbalans in the corner, that man wouldn't of followed her. He shivered as he relived the night again, seeing her die in his arms was cruel. That she was taken then. She should of lived longer than that, it should have been him taking the bullet instead of her. What he would give to see her smile again, to hear the click of her gun. Anything then the silence he heard. His life seemed pointless without her.

In fact, the only reason why he hadn't shot himself was because of a promise made long ago to a young girl. He had promised that no matter what happened he would still live on to become Furher. It seemed so long ago. His life was the same, going to work, coming home, getting drunk until he passed out. It was futile. However there were those nights when he was ready to end it, and only her face, those memories that were so long ago stopped him.

"Riza…I'm sorry." He pulled the ever so helpful bottle of liquor out, he took a big gulp. The liquid burned his throat along with the grief and regret. It wasn't until it was almost empty he stopped. Now shame washed with anguish, but he just drained the bottle and pulled out another one. He was drunk now, his vision blurring and his mind seemed like it was floating. He opened the drawer and pulled out a gun. Taking one more swig, he pointed the gun at his temple and pulled the trigger.

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