Eyes, slick as oil looked back at the man staring into the mirror. That greasy, tar gaze made him sick. He wondered how this same look made women smile, stare and become flustered around him. The validation they offered him made him feel alive, but that feeling was fleeting. After that moment was over, he fell back into the dark recesses of his fraudulent existence.

Sighing, he picked up the straight razor that lay on the counter besides him. It was beautiful and clean, with an alluring shine that gleamed in the artificial light of the bathroom. The smooth, cool handle felt soothing as he caressed it with his fingers. He smiled as he thought about how he had so much in common with that instrument. They both could be deadly, mindless, and obey the will of whoever wielded it.

With a free hand, he slathered some foamy shaving cream on his face. Sighing, he began the ritual he had participated in so often. The first scrape of the blade against his skin caused his mind to wander. It often did during mundane chores.

Why had fate deemed his existence worthy? Today was just as good as any day to die. Every stroke of the blade brought a new thought or question to his mind. Scraping his face clean, he wished he could scrape away the memories of his sins just as easily.

His mind flashed back to a scene he longed to forget. Suffocating heat, the sickening, sweet smell of blood, the cries of babies and a hellish inferno blazing in front of him, all became very real again. The sight of a man, disfigured horribly from a firery explosion caused by The Flame, crawling towards him, was vivid. There was part of a leg burned off, scalded skin that almost bubbled off his body, and accusing red-devil eyes. As he crawled towards Roy, dragging his mangled body behind him, he cursed the invader's life just as his own mortality was leaving him. The man died, lying at Roy's feet.

Roy awoke from this all-too-real daydream with a start. Eyes widened, and a cold sweat broke on his face. The sounds of droplets pattering on the countertop forced his eyes to look down. He had done it once again.

The gleaming razor, firmly grasped in his hand, lie poised against his throat. It had drawn a moderate, crimson line across the pale skin of his neck. Thick droplets of his blood continued to flow and hit the countertop with a rhythmic beat until the sound lightened, and eventually ceased.

Glistening, unnerved eyes stared into the mirror. A tear fell, staining the side of his freshly shaven cheek. This was the second time this month Roy had almost killed himself in this manner. He looked at himself and whispered, "Why am I still here?"

A shaking hand dropped the bloody instrument into the sink. As it clattered against the ceramic, he collapsed to the floor. There on the tile, he held himself and silently cried.

That morning, Hawkeye noticed Roy entering the office. 'Late as usual', she mused to herself. True to her name, her eyes noticed something out of place. Roy's coat was buttoned all the way to the top of his neck. A small piece of white something slightly stuck out. As Roy settled into his chair, readying himself for another boring day of paperwork, Riza made her way to the side of his desk. She carried a stack of papers with her.

"Sir", she said as she dropped the stack she was carrying onto his desk. "Yes?" he replied, eyes staying fixated on the paper before him. "Sir is there something wrong with your neck?" she asked, unsure of whether she should've been so forward. "I'm fine, I just cut myself shaving," he answered as he searched for a pen on his desk. "Yes sir", she replied, and she turned away, fully knowing that he had nearly sliced his throat open again.

A tear threatened to fall, but she quickly wiped it away. She went back to her seat and started her work, all the while wishing there were something more she could do for him. She knew he would never ask for her help though, and so she did what she could, which was staying by his side, watching over him without him realizing it.

Roy began scribbling his name, and his mind started to wander. Perhaps this was one more day his pathetic existence would be allowed to continue. Tomorrow was different though. Perhaps tomorrow would be just as good a day as any to die.