Author's Note: Aha... Inspiration struck when I was thinking about the terrible choices I've made in the past, and when I was in the same spot as I'm putting Soma in (except from horrible depression, not losing someone). So that means this may very well hurt me to write. Just like with the other things I've written, please note that I'm not an amazing writer, and this probably isn't all that great. Now! *claps hands* Onto the story!
Agni, you lied to me.
Another sleepless night. Of course. Soma lay flat on his back, staring up at the ceiling of his room with a dull expression. He was admittedly very tired, as he had hardly gotten any sleep in the past three months. But what did it even matter anymore? He hardly even thought himself to be living anymore.
Why would you lie your prince?
It had been three months since he had received that package - the black box held closed by a white and black ribbon. The one with the lollipop Soma couldn't even stand to look at because of the note that was also in the box. The one that read, "In memory of Ciel Phantomhive, Who died at Aug 26th, 1889 AGED 13 YEARS." The note that had broke him.
"Samaya hara ghāva bhara dētā hai, time heals all wounds." Isn't that what you told me?
It was getting harder and harder to live. He idolized Ciel for his wisdom. He had learned so much from him, though Ciel was five years younger. He shouldn't have died...! He was supposed to live at least long enough for Soma to fulfill his promise to the earl - his promise to become a great man. Great and wise, just like Ciel.
But if time heals all wounds, when why...
He rolled onto his stomach and sat up. The last time he had even moved was hours ago, when he was practicing his meditating rituals. He reached under his pillow to retrieve a certain object he had hidden so Agni wouldn't find it. Meditating alone wasn't able to help him through this problem.
...why does each passing day make it harder and harder to live?
This "certain object" was a knife. He strongly doubted the gods approved of his methods of coping, but there wasn't anything else that could help him the same way self-harm did. It was comforting, and the pain could be considered pleasant in a way. And so, he rolled up his left sleeve and pressed the blade against his wrist. He slid it slowly, purposely trying to make in hurt worse than just a quick cut, and longer as well.
...why does it feel as if each breath I take is making the pain worse and worse?
Shallow cuts at first, just as he always started with, before gradually making them deeper. It was no longer a horrible sensation, like it had been when he first started cutting. No - it was calming and soothing and better than anything else he had felt in the past three months.
You lied to me, Agni.
He no longer felt lightheaded or sick when he saw his blood well up around the cuts and then begin to spill over. He was almost able to admire what a pretty color it was. It was especially pretty in the dim light of his room in the middle of the night, when the only source of light were the moonlight and the stars.
Why, why, why, why?
But this would be the last time he would cut. The last time he would ever harm himself. The last time he would be up all night. The last time he would suffer like this.
Living is becoming too hard.
He laid back down. Killing wasn't an area he knew much about, but there wasn't any way he would keep living like this, either. So he went with his best guess and pressed the knife against his throat. Over and over, he ran the blade against his throat, before pressing the tip of the blade a few centimeters above the base of his throat and rammed it down as hard as he could.
"Time heals all wounds" is a lie.
Author's Note: That was certainly one way to vent, I suppose... However, writing this made me feel plenty better, so I'm not sure I even care if it sucks or not.