Dull, almost lifeless emerald green eyes stared down at the stark white of the blanket. It was a coarse material, but kept her warm enough, which was a feat in and of itself, these days… But, really, no matter how cathartic, how clouded her mind was, it couldn't change the fact that she could clearly see the other white fabric gleaming starkly against the harshness of the blanket. Bandages, around her forearms; bandages that told the world just how much of a schmuk one Amara Haruka Tenou had really become in the last years. The doctor said something about counseling-the patient displays the classic symptoms of clinical depression, and, well, rather obviously anorexia as well-but the others managed to talk him out of carting Amara to the nearest asylum-she's a danger to herself and others-short of death threats. ("Talk to Falkner," Zoey said, handing the doctor a number scrawled in sharp, angular strokes. "He's her uncle, and the Gym Leader of Violet City in the Johto region.")

It was nice to know they still cared about each other. Pointless, really, and unnecessary, but nice.

So, the asylum-I'll call him, but maintain that she must be at least admitted for psychiatric evaluation-wouldn't do good, anyhow. Some were under the impression that you couldn't do much self-harm with a spork and some plastic cutlery, but clearly they'd never met a child raised by one Zephyr Tenou before. ("You don't know Amara," Reggie said, "she'll find a way.") She'd seen an eye dug from its socket with a spork, once. Then she'd seen that spork get washed and used as an eating utensil. Father was always doing things like that because, really, he was a conservationist at heart... waste not, want not, as the saying goes. And Father also used to say that the best tools of interrogation – er, discipline could be found in a junk drawer.

The trick was to be creative. Unfortunately, while the feeding tube stuck down her throat through her nose would have worked well to strangle herself, she knew it wouldn't go over very well with anyone else who was currently in the room, and she didn't relish the idea of being tied down one bit; she liked her freedom, thank you very much. Besides, the others made Amara promise, and while Amara rarely ever kept her promises – "Promise," Michelle demanded – she did have a very tiny bit of integrity. Very tiny, but it was there.

Michelle stood over her hospital bed with her arms crossed and lips curled into that familiar, Kaioh pout. Amara used to think – correction, still thinks that pout is fuckable, but she was too tired at the time to bother, and besides, there was this whole awkward unsuccessful-suicide thing to consider. Not that the group had any inclination to judge; Michelle was upset, Paul stoic, and Zoey stared at the floor while Reggie paced all over it, but – "Promise," – the purple-haired male said it wasn't fair that Amara got to die first. If Amara could go out with razors to her wrists and a song in her heart, than by God, Reggie deserved the same thing, didn't he?

(They all knew that was just the panic and fear and worry talking; the breeder wasn't the type to do something like that. But, then again, they had all assumed Amara wasn't the type to starve herself or try to kill herself, and yet, here they were…) What made Amara Tenou so fucking special? (…He didn't usually curse, either, unless he was extremely upset…) Reggie hadn't judged Amara for her actions, did not in fact give a damn about the attempt much at all – he just wanted to know why Amara didn't call. ("If you're going to bleed out on the floor, make sure you do it the fuck right, you see? If I was there, we could've had a contest. See who died the fastest. Winner gets shotgun straight to hell, no waiting.")

Michelle scolded him rather loudly in her calm, slightly arrogant, Kaiohesque way, and said something about Reggie's lack maturity, clearly forgetting to whom she was speaking. ("That's right, let's have a contest to see who can emo the hardest. Try another one, Reggie.") Paul sat down in an empty chair upon noting the rising arguments, and stared at a very fascinating scuff mark on the tiled floor. Before Michelle could strangle him, Zoey grabbed Reggie, and shoved him out of the door with orders to get them all something to eat.

When Reggie whined that he didn't have any money ("Fuck, Zoe, goddamned corpses have more fucking money than I do."), Michelle slipped a twenty from her wallet, balled it in her fist, and pelted it at the male. Reggie gone, they each gave their tirades in turn. Michelle was second, claiming that what Amara did was very "irresponsible," and whatever happened to picking up a phone and asking for help? That's what friends were for, she said.

"We're still friends, aren't we Amara?"

Nothing was said about the five years that had floated on by after the end of the Sinoh League, hardly a word spoken between them. Michelle was a busy woman with an empire – inherited from her father – to run, and Amara lived in a tiny four-room apartment (bedroom, bathroom, living room, kitchen), without even the lack of her Pokémon as an excuse to be utterly depressing. (Pokémon... Travis. Where was Travis, anyway? Surely he'd been informed by now…) Michelle wanted to be friends, and Amara tried hard not to laugh. They never had been friends, not even during the few-and-far-between post-League, semi-sappy, philosophy-by-the-moonlight conversations. You don't laugh at your friend's insecurities. You don't abandon them, you don't forget them. You don't store them up on a convenient little shelf to fuck with whenever you want to. Because what Amara wanted to say, was, "Friends? You don't have friends, Michelle. These days, all you have are associates." There would be no mentions of crushing, lost loves, and The One That Got Away.

Amara had manners.

"Yes, Michelle. We're still friends," she lied, injecting masterfully fake emotion into her voice. "We'll always be friends."

Michelle gave a dull nod and vanished to take a call on her cell phone, so Zoey approached the bed, next off the assembly line. Amara imagined the four of them ordered neatly on a conveyor belt, and it was Amara's job to stand by patiently while each of them... conveyed... the many reasons she was a shmuck.

Shmuck. She was beginning to like that word. It was useful.

Zoey said very little. There was the "How are yous" and the "I trust you'll be out soons," but Amara sensed very clearly that Zoey was thoroughly disgusted by the events. She had always looked up to the blonde, after all. Her younger cousin couldn't seem to tear her eyes from the bandages gleaming like war badges around Amara's wrists and forearms, their mere presence seeming to roar silently "I (barely) survived." So, instead if forcing herself to speak further – they both knew it would have just ended in even more awkwardness, had she done so – Zoey slipped Amara a small card with her number on it. Despite the disgust, she said, "I hope you get well, cousin," and meant it. Underneath the words, were others: If you ever need sanctuary, call this number, and, When you get your head on right again, we'll have a Pokémon battle to celebrate. Amara focused mainly on the first.

Sanctuary. She liked that word too. And then there was only Paul.

His hands fidgeted with calluses as Paul stared, wide-eyed, a faint twitch to his lips. Amara mused that, if she had been a different woman, she probably would have wanted to kiss him. Likely would have wanted to worry away that slight shake with her tongue, until Paul melted against her and then they could the share the silence in a way Amara hadn't been able to with any other. Quite possibly, again had she been a different woman, would have wanted to fuck Paul into reassurance.

Had she been a different woman, she would have wanted things she could never have, and it was clear, for a moment, that Paul wanted the same exact thing. And that was okay. Because, for her, it was nothing but a faked scenario, and for him, he knew his chances had only ever really existed in her state of most insane to begin with Until Paul remembered that he had a husband at home, with two adopted children, and it wasn't a good idea at all. Disappointed that she had allowed herself to even contemplate the set-up in a purely hypothetical sense, Amara looked away, and Paul opened his mouth, all but slack-jawed and voiceless.

Finally, there was a quiet, "I'm glad you're alive."

Not, "I'm glad you're okay," or "I'm glad you're feeling better," just alive, just Paul and his selfishness - selflessness? – even if you aren't happy, at least you're still alive.

So Amara said, "Yeah."

And Paul nodded dumbly.

Zoey glanced between the two of them and quietly left the room ("I'll find Reggie," she said.).

Silence suddenly wasn't a virtue anymore. Amara found herself biting her lip before she had to stop, her fingers twisting into the cheap cotton blankets of the bed. She was remembering the methods – trick was to make the cut vertical to get a really good flow going, and then slump yourself over a filled, warm bath, and just lie there with the wounds stuck open until the water was pretty much diluted blood. That's how they found her, and then they pumped three bags of blood and fluid each into her system, before she was stable again. And THEN they'd inserted the feeding tube; it hadn't been a pleasant experience, all things considered. Amara was very cold, and so they gave her two blankets for company, but even that didn't stop the stray shivering. Because she was always cold; because now, she was colder than ever. Because there was nothing left on her bones but skin and scant muscle.

"Paul, could you turn up the heat?"

Paul was looking warm, with a tiny bead of sweat lingering on his brow, but he did as Amara asked, and the little dial went up as far as it could go. It seemed there was something to be said for having been the violet-haired boy's first "man-crush," she supposed…

Then Paul asked, "Is that good?"

"That's fine," Amara said. Her fists were balled with the effort to keep her hands to herself – to not attempt to tear out the feeding tube and garrote herself with it. She could tell he knew this, but he said nothing about it.

Awkwardness.

Paul scuffed his sneaker against the floor, making a mark, and then he stared at it. Amara cleared her throat, tried to say something important, and then she just said, "So."

Paul: "So."

Yeah. Paul started shrugging adorably, and he licked his chapped lips. "I should probably get going," he said. "Visiting hours are almost over."

"Almost over."

"Yeah."

Heaving sigh. "Yeah..."

Paul shrugged again, an anxious thing, and he whispered, "Well, I should be..."

"Yeah," Amara said again, her fingers flicking with a small shoo.

Paul smiled. Amara's heart clenched. Damn. She'd forgotten how much that smile was like Reggie's, and how it still hurt to know she had – no matter how unintentionally – broken both their hearts. But the smile wobbled down to a tiny little thing, and Paul grasped for the doorknob desperately. With one last glance at What Could Never Be, he whipped the door open and strode out before something foolish happened.

And Amara was alone again with her thoughts, and the silence. She wondered where Travis was, that boy who had become like a brother to her during their time together, but supposed she didn't deserve to have him here, anyways. She had been cruel, the last time they had seen one another, at a gathering of their old "friends," and refused to speak to him. It was her own fault, really, but, as she stared down at those damning strips of cloth bound tightly around her wrists and forearms, she couldn't stop the thoughts.

Brother, where are you…? Are my faults really that unforgivable, or am I just fooling myself into believing you could ever forgive me…? It seems, that I'll never know; you are too hurt to give, and I am too stupid and proud to request.

And yet, that is exactly what I'm asking, in the only way I know how. Please, just read it... And at least consider.