Rating: PG-13 for a tiny bit of self-inflicted violence towards the end
Summary: Eh.
Dedication: Well, I don't know if she'll be reading this or not, but this one's for ShinigamiPhoenix, because a few minutes ago I read your review, and it made me so happy that you'd come back to the fandom for a bit, and that you'd read the last few chapters of TBtaE! -dies-
Disclaimer: Don't own the boys, just borrow them to asbuse and torture as I wish ;)
The various metal and plastic bracelets(1), hanging loosely from the scarred and mutilated wrist, jangled furiously as he attacked the sheet of loose leaf paper with fervor. He wrote hurriedly, without even thinking. The thoughts emanating from his tortured mind flowed too fast, and left no time for the nuance of conscious thought. The unconscious were too black, too ugly, and predominant in his mind. The rational thoughts, the reasoning, the little white angel sitting on his left shoulder had no chance against the evils that were flitting through her mind at present. The Shinigami that always seemed to take over.
The tiny radio player in the corner of the room was playing the evening's news, and though the volume on the machine was turned low, barely audible to any bystander, the words were screaming in Duo's ears . Next to the small stereo lay a wrinkled newspaper, its ink smudged and illegible from the watery droplets that lay fresh on top of the article. He had thrown it aside, unable to read the contents of it any longer.
He'd lost a friend that afternoon. Had lost the only person in this world who understood him even a little bit. Sniffling, he stopped writing for a moment to reread what his thoughts had produced so far. Satisfied, he turned around in his chair and cranked up the volume. "Suicide Is Painless", an old song from Pre-Colony times, had just come on.
It's perfect, he thought bitterly, an almost cynical grin spreading across his tear-streaked face. How fitting. He didn't want to - no, couldn't - go on alone. With his friend, he had that small reassurance that somebody did indeed know the real him, the true him, the one behind that mask he always hid behind. But now that that friend was gone, hope had also ceased to exist.
Wiping away the last of his tears, he took what he had been writing - his note, the last he would ever write - and placed it gently on top of the newspaper, still opened up to that same article. Within seconds, the lettering was covered in a crimson mess, with tears shed from his weeping wrists. The only thing legible now was the headline: "Wanted Terrorist, Heero Yuy, Assumed Dead".(2)
.End.
Weird and dark, I know.. sorry. :/ Cliched, overused and unoriginal plot, but I found this story on my computer (I'd written it for another fandom about a year ago) and thought what the hell, why not post it here?
(1) The Duo in my mind always wears bracelets to cover the scars -shrugs-
(2) I don't know much about that one, I'm using poetic license here. It's the time he self-destructed and Trowa found him later, when everyone else assumed he was dead? I have no idea if the public knew about that in the series, but in this fic, they did. :)