Disclaimers: I do not own gundam wing.. I do not own gundam wing, I do not
own gundam wing, I do not own gundam wing. …… I .. do .. own gundam wing!
Ha! *gets poked by a muse* huh?? Aww man… just a dream.. I do not own
gundam wing. (but I –do- own fundam wing . uhhh.. nu?)
Warnings: self mutalation, angst, self bondage, angst, language! Angst!! Possible suicide attempts. Uhmmm watch out for a random flying typo. They happen.
Pairings: 2x4 (forever!!!) and there might be hints or scenes of 1x3 I don't know yet..
This is the first fic I've uploaded.. tell me if I did anything wrong please!!!! Also tell me if something doesn't make sense or if I really spelled something wrong. Please. Ok read and review and be nice!! Flames welcomed. (I think I titled this Burning for a reason ^.~) tell me what you think. Please. Please!!!!
Here I was again, the same old mess in the same situation.
Every –fucking- night I end up like this and I don't know why.
It's getting really old.
Sitting on the floor of my room, knees to my chest arms
wrapped around them tightly. I noticed, in these nights, you're
grip
tightens when you think about stuff that should make you angry or sad
or depressed or whatever the hell they want to call it today. My arms
were wrapped around my knees for dear life at this point. My chin
resting on my knees, staring off into nothing.
Nothing. The story of my life. A ballroom dance where every
nothing gathers and end up in an all out battle of torment and anger
fighting endlessly. Till I give in. till I end up like this.
I sit here and think to myself as if I was actually telling
someone all this.. maybe I am, maybe I'm trying to explain to
myself
what the hell I'm doing. Maybe I'm trying to explain to my
body, as a
form of apology. Maybe I'm just nuts.
I can't even feel the pain in my arms anymore. It's there, I
know it
is on some subconscious level. Conscious though, that evilness that
learned to take my life and rip it to a million fucking pieces of
already broken parts, conscious wins the battle and blocks out the
pain.
I cant feel anything actually, I'm vaguely aware of the blood
that has dripped off my arms onto the floor, temporarily staining it
red. I don't care. I don't care if the phone rings, I
don't care if
someone knocks on the door, and I don't care if the fucking FBI
prances in here and arrests me for eating ice cream on the sidewalk.
I don't care if I die.
And this is me in a good mood. Slashing parts of my arm up
and just sitting staring endlessly not giving a damn about anything
is a good day. It's a weekend, nothing happened. Nothing ever
happens.
Except my thoughts. They always manage to hunt me down and
beat me till I submiss to them, let them beat me and bruise me and
tell me how worthless I am. I let them screw my life up, fuck my arms
and legs up. Then I let them lock me up.
Consciousness is a game now, I never know when I'm really
awake. Sure, I know when I'm literally awake, but there are
different
levels of consciousness. I hit a shallow one, my thoughts locked me
up, shut everything down, I'm at a perfect state of calm, except
how
fucking tense I am. Perfectly calm on the outside, blinking every
couple of minutes when my eyes begin to burn, no other movement. Not
shaking, not cringing at the supposed pain lacing through my arms,
not crying because of how fucked up I am. Perfectly numb.
Except for my thoughts, they race, run as fast as they can,
dragging what's left of my soul behind them.
I lose the same battle everynight to my thoughts.
My fists clench. I loose the same –fucking- battle every –
fucking- night. I'm so weak. I'm useless! I'm a piece of
trash that
should just be sent to burn in the sun. I'm a fuck-up.
I lose the same battle, lose to my thoughts, and let them
take me and brake me. And.. and I enjoy every damn moment of it.
This part, right here, this is where it gets bad.. this is
where I always snap.. everynight.
No more am I perfectly numb, or calm. No more…
My fist clench so tight my nails dig into the palms of my
hands, as I feel my face take on an statement that would be
considered and understatement to call it hate or anger.
I punch the floor with both hands, letting some sort of
strangled growl out.
I punch the floor again before holding my head in my hands
and scream. I scream long and hard until all the air in my lungs is
empty and my voice is just a mere strangle that ends in a pitiful
gasp.
I sit there with my head in my hands gasping for about a
minute until I abruptly slam my back and my head against the wall
with a satisfying thud, over and over, violently slamming my head
into the wall. Of course, never hard enough to actually knock myself
out. I Stop ramming myself into the wall and begin to punch my thighs
with my fists growling the whole time.
I stop punching myself and just grab onto my knees, digging
my nails into them through the material of my pants, tightly closing
my eyes. The only noise I can make is a semi-strangled groan that
sounds more like a dying animal.
My hands forcefully shoot up to hold my head again, and I
shake me head, my body trembling with anger. Anger at nothing. Just
raw, pure anger.
I barely notice I'm rocking back and forth as I move my hands
to my shoulders, crisscrossing them across my chest, trembling
because every muscle in my body is tensed.
I drag my hands down across my shoulders, digging my nails in
my skin hard but not breaking the skin. Then a sudden sick
inspiration dawned upon me. I Stopped shaking and with a newfound
focus got on my knees and started searching the floor.
Then I found it. My razor, my tiny silvery friend. I picked
it up and sat against the wall again staring at the razor, transfixed
by it for what seemed like hours but was merely a minute.
I glared at the razor and winced inwardly as I put it to my
back around the area where my nails had scratched. I hold the razor
against my bare back without moving it.
"Stop it…" I whisper helplessly to myself.
"Stop it. Stop it… Stop it!" I begin to chat..
continuing my
chant I drag the razor across my skin slowly, still chanting.
"Stop It.. Stop It.. this is stupid!" despite what I'm
telling myself to do, I trace another line with the razor below the
first one, this time faster.
"Stop it!!!!" I nearly scream, right before tracing another
line right below, quicker and deeper.
"Stop it!" I say at the exact same time I make another cut.
Over and over, telling myself to stop the exact same time I
drag that thin blade into my skin, faster and deeper. My eyes are
closed, and I'm nearly screaming for myself to stop, but at the
same
time my hand keeps moving the razor across the flesh on my back. I
Stop once I have a row of cuts all bleeding pretty badly from near
the top of my shoulder to almost my waist, all less then a centimeter
apart, some overlapping.
I sigh defeatedly as I look at my hand holding the razor, the
razor and my hand alike are both covered in blood and I can feel as a
flow of red life flows from my shoulder to my waist, staining my
pants along with the floor.
I can't cry, I never have. Physical pain doesn't get me to
cry easily and at this point neither does emotional.
I look at my hand again, transfixed by the blood on it. Then
I drop the razor and punch the floor with my bloodied hand, not as
hard as before.
"You're a monster, Quatre… A monster."
Yay . I have finished a chapter. R&R and make me and my camels happy!
Warnings: self mutalation, angst, self bondage, angst, language! Angst!! Possible suicide attempts. Uhmmm watch out for a random flying typo. They happen.
Pairings: 2x4 (forever!!!) and there might be hints or scenes of 1x3 I don't know yet..
This is the first fic I've uploaded.. tell me if I did anything wrong please!!!! Also tell me if something doesn't make sense or if I really spelled something wrong. Please. Ok read and review and be nice!! Flames welcomed. (I think I titled this Burning for a reason ^.~) tell me what you think. Please. Please!!!!
Here I was again, the same old mess in the same situation.
Every –fucking- night I end up like this and I don't know why.
It's getting really old.
Sitting on the floor of my room, knees to my chest arms
wrapped around them tightly. I noticed, in these nights, you're
grip
tightens when you think about stuff that should make you angry or sad
or depressed or whatever the hell they want to call it today. My arms
were wrapped around my knees for dear life at this point. My chin
resting on my knees, staring off into nothing.
Nothing. The story of my life. A ballroom dance where every
nothing gathers and end up in an all out battle of torment and anger
fighting endlessly. Till I give in. till I end up like this.
I sit here and think to myself as if I was actually telling
someone all this.. maybe I am, maybe I'm trying to explain to
myself
what the hell I'm doing. Maybe I'm trying to explain to my
body, as a
form of apology. Maybe I'm just nuts.
I can't even feel the pain in my arms anymore. It's there, I
know it
is on some subconscious level. Conscious though, that evilness that
learned to take my life and rip it to a million fucking pieces of
already broken parts, conscious wins the battle and blocks out the
pain.
I cant feel anything actually, I'm vaguely aware of the blood
that has dripped off my arms onto the floor, temporarily staining it
red. I don't care. I don't care if the phone rings, I
don't care if
someone knocks on the door, and I don't care if the fucking FBI
prances in here and arrests me for eating ice cream on the sidewalk.
I don't care if I die.
And this is me in a good mood. Slashing parts of my arm up
and just sitting staring endlessly not giving a damn about anything
is a good day. It's a weekend, nothing happened. Nothing ever
happens.
Except my thoughts. They always manage to hunt me down and
beat me till I submiss to them, let them beat me and bruise me and
tell me how worthless I am. I let them screw my life up, fuck my arms
and legs up. Then I let them lock me up.
Consciousness is a game now, I never know when I'm really
awake. Sure, I know when I'm literally awake, but there are
different
levels of consciousness. I hit a shallow one, my thoughts locked me
up, shut everything down, I'm at a perfect state of calm, except
how
fucking tense I am. Perfectly calm on the outside, blinking every
couple of minutes when my eyes begin to burn, no other movement. Not
shaking, not cringing at the supposed pain lacing through my arms,
not crying because of how fucked up I am. Perfectly numb.
Except for my thoughts, they race, run as fast as they can,
dragging what's left of my soul behind them.
I lose the same battle everynight to my thoughts.
My fists clench. I loose the same –fucking- battle every –
fucking- night. I'm so weak. I'm useless! I'm a piece of
trash that
should just be sent to burn in the sun. I'm a fuck-up.
I lose the same battle, lose to my thoughts, and let them
take me and brake me. And.. and I enjoy every damn moment of it.
This part, right here, this is where it gets bad.. this is
where I always snap.. everynight.
No more am I perfectly numb, or calm. No more…
My fist clench so tight my nails dig into the palms of my
hands, as I feel my face take on an statement that would be
considered and understatement to call it hate or anger.
I punch the floor with both hands, letting some sort of
strangled growl out.
I punch the floor again before holding my head in my hands
and scream. I scream long and hard until all the air in my lungs is
empty and my voice is just a mere strangle that ends in a pitiful
gasp.
I sit there with my head in my hands gasping for about a
minute until I abruptly slam my back and my head against the wall
with a satisfying thud, over and over, violently slamming my head
into the wall. Of course, never hard enough to actually knock myself
out. I Stop ramming myself into the wall and begin to punch my thighs
with my fists growling the whole time.
I stop punching myself and just grab onto my knees, digging
my nails into them through the material of my pants, tightly closing
my eyes. The only noise I can make is a semi-strangled groan that
sounds more like a dying animal.
My hands forcefully shoot up to hold my head again, and I
shake me head, my body trembling with anger. Anger at nothing. Just
raw, pure anger.
I barely notice I'm rocking back and forth as I move my hands
to my shoulders, crisscrossing them across my chest, trembling
because every muscle in my body is tensed.
I drag my hands down across my shoulders, digging my nails in
my skin hard but not breaking the skin. Then a sudden sick
inspiration dawned upon me. I Stopped shaking and with a newfound
focus got on my knees and started searching the floor.
Then I found it. My razor, my tiny silvery friend. I picked
it up and sat against the wall again staring at the razor, transfixed
by it for what seemed like hours but was merely a minute.
I glared at the razor and winced inwardly as I put it to my
back around the area where my nails had scratched. I hold the razor
against my bare back without moving it.
"Stop it…" I whisper helplessly to myself.
"Stop it. Stop it… Stop it!" I begin to chat..
continuing my
chant I drag the razor across my skin slowly, still chanting.
"Stop It.. Stop It.. this is stupid!" despite what I'm
telling myself to do, I trace another line with the razor below the
first one, this time faster.
"Stop it!!!!" I nearly scream, right before tracing another
line right below, quicker and deeper.
"Stop it!" I say at the exact same time I make another cut.
Over and over, telling myself to stop the exact same time I
drag that thin blade into my skin, faster and deeper. My eyes are
closed, and I'm nearly screaming for myself to stop, but at the
same
time my hand keeps moving the razor across the flesh on my back. I
Stop once I have a row of cuts all bleeding pretty badly from near
the top of my shoulder to almost my waist, all less then a centimeter
apart, some overlapping.
I sigh defeatedly as I look at my hand holding the razor, the
razor and my hand alike are both covered in blood and I can feel as a
flow of red life flows from my shoulder to my waist, staining my
pants along with the floor.
I can't cry, I never have. Physical pain doesn't get me to
cry easily and at this point neither does emotional.
I look at my hand again, transfixed by the blood on it. Then
I drop the razor and punch the floor with my bloodied hand, not as
hard as before.
"You're a monster, Quatre… A monster."
Yay . I have finished a chapter. R&R and make me and my camels happy!