If I owned it, I wouldn't be sitting here writing fanfic.
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He felt it building, an uncontrollable urge that soon spiraled infinitely through him; echoes of anguish and torment that wrapped around his spine, permeating every nerve throughout his body. The walls seemed to be closing in on him, squeezing the life out of one very nervous brunette. He began to fall into the trance that he'd started to realize shouldn't be taken lightly – the one where his hand seemed to move of its own volition, worming into the back of his bottom dresser drawer, prying out the small matchbox that held the glittering metal that had become his salvation.
The steady, ethereal beat of music filtered through the speakers of his computer, slowly fading into background, noise that meant nothing as he listened to the blood pounding in his ears. Breathing raggedly, it seemed as if steel bands wrapped around his chest, forcing the painful hyperventilation that accompanied his panic.
Can't... oh, Hyne, don't let me fall again... don't let me be so fucking weak, don't let... me...
Prayers felt thick and muddled in his mind as he slowly drew the razorblade up his forearm, increasing the pressure as he went. He exhaled sharply, feeling the dizzying pain flutter through him and fade into the oblivion he was seeking. Again, and again, and again... increasing the pace, rapid, angry slashes, over and over, cutting until he could no longer breathe, a red haze of warm contentment rushing through him. The blade slipped through his fingers as he watched himself bleed, the room fuzzy and spinning, watery to his eyes. His gaze fluttered to the pictures on his nightstand, and he smiled; listening to the blonde-haired boy in the photo rapping smartly on his door.
"Squall?
Unable to answer, he relinquished his hold on consciousness, slipping quietly into oblivion.

To be continued...?