Author's Note: Similar to some other stuff that I wrote for the movie 'Saving Private Ryan' (you should check them out :D) but I really wanted to write about this. I got the inspiration to write this after watching the episode where Hughes dies (Episode 25 for those wondering) and in which Roy tells Hughes in a flashback that he tried to commit suicide. I love Roy because he is so broken (is that a bad thing?) and he is one of my favorite characters. Anyway please REVIEW. I would like some feedback. Oddly, I enjoy writing morbid stuff like this. I can relate too well with what they're feeling.
Note: This is the 2003 anime series.
Disclaimer: I don't own anything.
He can hear the sounds of Central right outside his window and he can't sleep. It's his entire fault for choosing Central out of all places to live; it's a city that never sleeps.
The couch is much too small for him. You can tell it's old by the used, stained, and outdated fabric. It probably belonged to one of his parents. However, he can't bear to sleep anywhere else. And so there he was: slumped over on the raggedy old couch with a cup of whiskey in his right hand and the bottle in his left hand. He's halfway through the bottle but he doesn't intend to stop. Not tonight.
He decides to abandon the cup and it slips through his fingertips and lands with a soft thud onto the floor.He can hear the whiskey spill on the carpet and the ice cubes scatter across the floor but he doesn't get up. He brings the bottle to his lips and throws back his head and he drinks.
It burns. He can feel the alcohol burning his throat as it travels down deep inside him. He wants to cough; he can feel the cough building up but he won't let it out. He wants to stop and tell himself that he's had too much to drink and that he's going to regret this in the morning. However, he needs to feel the burning of the alcohol. It's a sick world.
He brings the bottle down and with his sleeve he wipes away the whiskey that had spilled down his chin. He checks the contents of the bottle and when he doesn't hear anything he throws the bottle down to the floor with disgust and frustration. He hadn't polished off a bottle since…when? He screws up his eyebrows in an attempt to remember when the fuck was the last time he had gotten this smashed? The room was reeling and ceiling was spinning. His hair was plastered to his forehead and he felt great.
What was he, the Hero of Ishbal, supposed to do? Here he was, drunk and all alone. He didn't even bring home a woman tonight. While he was looking around his shabby (but modest apartment as he likes to tell Hawkeye) his eyes land on his handgun. He had thrown it across the dining table when he had stumbled into his apartment earlier. He lets out a laugh and stands up.
Immediately, he falls to the floor. How degrading. What would somebody say if they saw him? Look at Colonel Mustang! He can't even hold his liquor! He grits his teeth in frustration. He places his hands on the floor and pushes himself up and stands on one leg at a time. Finally, he's standing and he heads for the table. It takes him everything to place one foot in front of the other. It feels like he's walking on water and he's going to slip and fall underwater at any moment. He hates feeling vulnerable.
It doesn't take long to reach the table (it's a small apartment) and he gladly reaches for his weapon. He barks out a laugh. It's so fucking hilarious! Here he is: having to do everything in his power to reach his dining table (which he doesn't even use) when all he has to do to kill hundreds of people is snap his fingers. Life is a joke.
He slumps onto the only chair in his apartment (placed conveniently next to the table). He places his finger on the trigger and examines the weapon in his hands. The handgun is cold and feels harsh beneath his hands but it also feels powerful. He understands why Hawkeye likes to use them.
Usually, he drinks and then passes out on his couch. However, tonight is different. He's known that ever since he left work that day. The thought had been at the back of his head all day long. The silver of the gun caught the light as Roy turned it on himself.
The handgun burned silently inside his mouth. His brain screams at him to get the gun out of his fucking mouth. His heart, however, gently tells him that it's okay. You can do this. Or maybe that's the whiskey talking.
He decides to listen to the Whiskey. It seemed a lot more reliable than his brain which at the moment felt like it was swimming through molasses.
But something stops him from pulling the trigger. He realizes that even though he is drunk out of his mind, he is still scared. And with tremendous shame, he takes the handgun out of his mouth and silently places it on the table. He buries his face in his hands and cries.
He is a coward, a fool, and a murderer.