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aboulia:

-an absence of willpower or an inability to act decisively

Clothes littered the floor. A chair was upturned; every picture frame knocked so it's motionless inhabitants faced the earth below. Empty bottles – evidence of the 'race' with Cana that had lasted all of 2 minutes (and a half, he would argue) – lined the edge of the room near the door. Smoke that furled its way up his body - a result of his restless power - was accompanied by the sickening scent of too-old food that wafted from the fridge through the room, and to any innocent bystander it would seem like the thick smoke was the cause of the smell. Assorted wrappers and letters and clothes that were losing their familiar scent lay strewn around the apartment in a delicate pattern that he had come to recognise as his regular surroundings. He made sure not to disturb them, if he ever moved at all.

The blinds were down because he despised looking at the window, the two thin slivers of light that peeked out from either side framing the room. Even seeing it out of the corners of his bloodshot eyes had been infuriating. How dare this inanimate piece of glass remind him of what seemed like distant memories? How could it bear to continue to defy his wishes by suggesting there was more to life than these four walls? It had felt like the un-living thing was mocking him with a poisonous grin, and hence, the blinds were shut.

There would have been piles of dish upon dish in the sink, were it not for the fact that he had ceased to eat. He had no appetite. He hungered for something of impossible proportions.

And there it was. All it took was for him to think about it. The trigger on the gun inside his head had been pulled.

Fuck.

Everything came crashing down, although nothing moved around him.

The walls seemed to draw nearer with every laboured breath he took as he slammed back against the surface behind him. Once again, the shaking returned to his weary body and his skin felt like it was being stretched, pulled, and manipulated until there was an impossible tension residing in every inch of him. A book fell swiftly from the desk he had disturbed. Recognising it immediately, he felt a rush of warmth that disappeared all too soon as he thought of the uncompleted novel that lay within. Joining the rest of the mess on the floor, it came to rest with its spine flat and pages open for his viewing. The pages were regrettably blank, blank like he wished his head – and his heart – could be.

A mewling sigh, the gentle pad of miniature feet, and the pressure of one firm paw on his own trembling hand informed him he was not alone in his despair.

In. Out. In. Out. In and out and in and out.

Breathe, dummy, breathe.

Fortunately, the tremors in his body ceased, the room stopped spinning, and the feeling that wasn't much unlike the aftermath of being stabbed in the gut slowly subsided.

He'd been on a relatively clean streak for a few days now; he had hoped the 'attacks', as he'd not-so-fondly named them, would have finally gone away.

For some reason, the open book that lay to his left kept on catching his attention. As much as he wished he wasn't entranced by the metaphors it sparked inside him, his mind betrayed him and spun an intricate picture of how this book represented and embodied him. An unfinished story; adventures yet to tell, places yet to see, people yet to meet. He had pages yet to fill.

After three months in a seemingly endless rut, the stupidity of his actions was finally dawning on him. What was he doing? This wasn't even his house. He was solving nothing, fixing none of the broken mosaics inside his head by sitting not-quite-alone and saying, doing, being nothing all day. He clenched a fist in the unchanged bed sheets at the revelation that this was not what she would have wanted in the slightest.

And so the not-quite-a-man-yet rather clumsily scooped up the stunned exceed beside him and placed him on his shoulder.

And with that, setting off in the direction of the Fairy Tail Guild hall with one last look at the usual brickwork and a new resolve, was Natsu Dragneel.

(Clichéd foreboding opening chapter that is far too short? Check!)

Side note – following chapters will definitely be much longer (hopefully a few thousand words each); this is a 'prologue' of sorts that I had originally written as a writing warm up for this story to set the scene in my head, but ended up liking it so much that I decided to use it here.

Thanks for reading! Hiro Mashima owns Fairy Tail and it's characters.

Drop a review if you have the time, they're very much appreciated, and make me feel all warm and fuzzy inside. If you want to suggest any little events or scenes or possible sub-plots/plot points that you'd like to see – tell me! I make no promises but I will consider all feedback I receive.

I do apologise for OOC moments; I'm not, by any stretch, an experienced writer at all and I'm still very much learning the ropes. My intentions are much more for my own fun and creative writing practice than for trying to actually make a serious story. But hey, it might turn into one if enough people dig my writing.

This story has not been beta'd or checked through by anyone other than myself, so if there are any glaringly awful or obvious grammar/spelling mistakes please do let me know! (Also if you can come up with a better summary, I'd love it because summarising + me = laughable failure)

My current aim is to update this on a weekly basis, but no promises because I am human after all! :D

See ya next week! ^-^