One shot, two shots, three shots, four. Every down gave him a new level of haziness. Five shots, six shots, seven, and eight. He finally set the small glass down and didn't plan to pick it back up. He looked around the small living room and sighed. How long had been doing this? Sitting on the same couch, drinking his life away? Honestly, too long to remember.
His hair was unkempt, and clothes were askew. He looked a mess. He felt a mess. His tie was no longer tight, and near his pale neck. Instead it hung to his naval from a half attempt to rip it off. His white button up shirt had the top three buttons undone. It was all the energy he'd had. His shoes were left on, even inside on the carpet.
He allowed the numbness to take over his mind. He didn't think of it. And he sure as hell didn't speak of it. Guilt gnawed on his consciousness and was eating him from the inside out.
Nine shots, ten shots. He slammed the shot glass down on the table with a thud. Another night of this? Drinking himself until he passed out? Another night of living with what he did? The monster he'd become? Another night…
Another night of hopeless regrets. Another night of painful memories. Another night of silent screams, and less silent sobs. Another night of life. Of hell.
He felt a tingling reach across his body and he repressed a shudder. This was the breaking point. When the numb began to fade. No matter how drunk he got. It was like a disease. And it would kill him.
Shaking, to sobs, to screaming, to crying, to hating, to loving, to wishing, to pleading. Same old goddamn routine, just a new day. What day was it? Tuesday?
He looked toward the calendar. Friday. Well damn. Look at that.
He turned away. Like he always does. Like he did. Because he was a coward. He hated himself. More than anyone could know. He wanted himself dead. But again, he was a fucking coward. He wouldn't take it to those lengths. Sure he killed innocent people, but he couldn't end his own life?
Tears started to slip free from tormented and broken dark orbs. It just hurt. Hurt too much. To the point his body would go into shock. He felt it at the end of every nerve, felt it in every breath… Like a stab to the heart. His stomach was permanently twisting and making him sick.
He picked up the picture frame with a shaky hand. Why did he still have this? Isn't this what pathetic is?
"Roy..."
He threw the frame against the wall as hard as he could. The frame shattered into a million pieces, as did his heart. He collapsed on the ground. What was the use trying anymore?
Over and over. The same shit on permanent repeat. Too long he's been doing this. Too long. That feeling of utter disgust, turmoil, shame, guilt… All the emotions to drive you insane, put into a plastic cup and blended until you get a death cocktail.
Knock, knock…
What was that? A knock? No, nobody cares. Nobody cares… Not after what he did. What a horrible person he was. What a pathetic, horrible, terrible person he was.
"He was just a kid Roy! He was just a kid…"
A kid. A child. Someone's baby. He'd killed him. So cold and heartless and in one snap. How could he do something like that? How?
He looked down to his trembling hands and started sobbing.
If he could take it all away he would. Oh god, he would. He didn't even know the kids name. How was that fair?
He spent every night up, drinking away his guilt. Drinking away his life. Drinking away the kid. Drinking away his best friend. Drinking away Riza. Drinking away Havoc. All of them. Like they were disposable. But overall, and that he knew, he was drinking away Ed.
A pain shot through his heart causing him to wince. Ed. Oh great, door's open. These nights were the worst. His picture, now sat on the ground, shattered glass surrounding his beautiful face.
Edward. His subordinate for so many years. His friend when he was younger. His lover, when he was an adult. His lover. The one who used to sleep peacefully right by him, in this very apartment. His perfect angelic lover, was dead. Just as dead as everyone else.
Al didn't blame him. He was thankful for that. But it did nothing to the guilt he felt. He was responsible for his death. For all of theirs.
Winry blamed him though. If she didn't hate him before, she sure does now doesn't she? Not only did he take her good friend, he took her husband's brother.
Al and Winry. They were the only thing left of Edward. Gracia and cute little Elicia didn't speak to him anymore. It was too painful to see your dead husbands best friend. The one that had been there when he was alive.
He never visited Al or Winry. They never visited him. They reminded him so much of Ed it was sick.
They reminded him of the beautiful blonde he'd shared his bed with. Roy was Ed's first. And last…
He shut his eyes tight. He was shivering and gripping at his clothes desperately. It was so cold. When was the last time he'd paid the electric bill? Oh right. He didn't go to work anymore.
The wind outside of the window made a faint humming. Car's drove by, headlights flashing on the glass. It lit the place up for a small moment.
He wondered what all those people in their cars were doing. Probably going home to their family. The one he didn't have.
He started sobbing. God he missed him. He missed him so fucking bad. It hurt so goddamn much.
He should have been there. He should have known those groups of kids weren't from Amestris. He should have known they had bombs on them. He should have known…
He had stayed home sick. And even though Edward said he'd have stayed home, Roy had wanted him to go. Wanted him not to worry about him. He'd been wrong… Been so wrong. He only had a cold. He could have gone. He should have gone.
When he showed up it'd been too late. He only captured one of them. They spat in his face. They were just kids. He'd killed him.
He was so angry. They took everything. It wasn't their fault, Roy knew that. At that moment, he couldn't have cared less.
He had seen them just a year earlier. He deemed them ready. They were only kids! How could they have been ready?
He let them go through training. The torturous training. He hadn't known they'd be test subjects. He didn't know they'd be tormented and abused. He hadn't known…
He should have checked up on them. He'd promised them that. He didn't keep his promise. Instead he'd even forgotten about them. They were only kids. And he hated himself everyday for it. Every single day of this meaningless existence he was in.
They got fed up. That's the simplest he could put it. They'd grown up broken and angry and hurt. And they lashed out the only way they knew how. The way they'd been trained. It was all his fault.
Further investigation showed the kids were only meaning to kill Roy. He would have gladly gone. If only that meant the rest would be alive.
They were caught in his office. They panicked. They blew up his fucking building. Hughes, Havoc, Falman, Fuery, Hawkeye, Breda, and even Ed… They were all there. Along with several other officers. All alive and joking. They'd died.
Roy was given a discharge from the military. He was deemed too emotionally compromised. No longer would he be a general, or Fuhrer. No longer would he be Roy Mustang.
If he'd done his job. If he'd checked on them. He could have saved lives. He could have saved those kids. He could have saved his subordinates. He could have saved his lover.
Roy crawled to Ed's picture. He shooed the glass away and picked up the small photo.
His lover, his young vibrant lover was taken. He might as well had done it himself. It was his neglect. His mistake. That took the lives of so many. The military knew it, the public knew it, he knew it.
He absent mindedly glanced to the glass. There was one long piece scattered with the other shards. He picked it up with his other trembling hand.
Why not? Why not now? What did he have to look to when he woke up in the morning. Nothing. Absolutely fucking nothing.
None of Ed's clothes smelled like him anymore. None of his personal items, or hair ties, or anything. He had left his life, and his senses. Why not?
He couldn't find an answer to that. He choked on a sob a few times and closed his eyes tight as he placed the glass in the middle of his wrist. He'd barely feel it anyway. He's so drunk he's passed that.
He took one last breath before dragging it up his forearm to his elbow. When he made the cut he could tell how deep it was. The piece of glass had sunk in his flesh halfway. He cursed and threw the bloody glass across the room.
Okay, so that fucking hurt. He opened his eyes and watched in fascination as the blood seemed to endlessly flow from his veins. He sat his back up against the couch, and rested his arm on his knee.
Everything felt quieter now. Calm even.
The crimson color flowed over his arm and jeans, and stained the carpet. There was so much blood. He felt like he could drown in it. But that wouldn't be necessary. He'd die just fine from this.
His breathing labored and his body started to feel more sluggish. Tingles erupted all over his body. Wasn't quite pleasant but it wasn't unwelcome.
He felt less sick now, though his heart still ached with the memory of what happened. He was still being eaten from the inside but it had slowed. He'd finally pay for what he did. He would finally pay.
His eyes drifted closed. The last thing he saw before he passed out was Edward. His perfect face, smiling at him through the picture.
Forgive me Edward…I love you...
So...what do you think? This idea popped into my head one night. Review if you would please.