Let Me Go - Chapter 1 - Why?

I don't own ADVENTURE TIME or any of the characters contained within. I will claim this twisted piece of fiction as mine.

Finn suffers at his own hands because of his failure to save a loved one. It takes his near death to make his remaining friends/family realize that he is not ok. This story is MAJORLY OoC for the series, but if you have read my other Fic, then you know I don't stay true to characters.

WARNING - RATING M - TRIGGERING CONTENT - graphic descriptions of gore, self harm and possible SU topics are contained within. (yes, I'm a sick, sad little puppie). I don't write this way on purpose, I write this to get it OUT of my head and deal with my OWN f-ked up life.

Haters welcome, comments welcome.

I fully expect some major hate for this.

I'm sorry.

Darkness greeted his eyes as once again they open. My wish wasn't granted. The last thing he had thought before the embrace of sleep took him was he wished he wouldn't wake. He knew wishing never brought him anything, so it was lost to him why he felt that it would work now. Or ever. Yet night after night, he did the same thing. Wish to never wake.

A deep sigh works its way out of his body, another horrid reminder than he was still alive. Why was it so hard for my worthless body to simply stop living?Slowly, with a great deal of effort, he pulls himself uptight to sit in the darkness of his bedroom. It wasn't completely pitch black, pale moonlight filtered in from the windows, but it had to be early, or maybe it was late. Time had very little meaning to him anymore, other than torment him. Swinging his feet over the edge of the fur-laden bed, he winces when his skin touches the bare wooden floor. It was cold, much cooler than it should be. Or it should have been. When the weather started to turn chilly, he simply ignored the decreasing temperatures. It was too much effort to try and warm the place for just himself, he didn't care if frost formed on the inside of the windows. It wouldn't be the first time, nor the last. Plus, it gave him the odd hope that perhaps the cold would help convince him body to stop working.

Pushing himself off the bed, he stood, swaying slightly in the darkness, waiting for his eyes to clear the sleep fog. Why am I awake? What dragged me from the sweet oblivion of sleep? Then it hit him, his body or rather his bladder, demands his attention. As much as he wants to return to sleep, he knew better. Sleeping on damp, urine soaked furs wasn't pleasant, as much as he hated his current existence, he refused to live like an animal.

Taking a step forward, he stumbles toward the bathroom, taking his time due to his body's refusal to obey his commands. Slowly, carefully, he made his way to the required room, entering into the bleak space. Thankfully, years of living there had ingrained the location he needed, so little thought was required on his part. Standing there, one hand pressed against the wall, he sighs as he fulfills his body's pressing demand. Finishing, he stumbles over to the sink, reaching for the faucet. If he had to live, he was going to be at least decent enough to wash his hands after handling himself.

The cold water jars his sleep-numbed mind into full wakefulness, his eyes suddenly clear. The sink wasn't its normal white, there were splashes of a darker substance covering its normally clean surface. As the water continues to run, slowly one of the spots starts to dissolve, staining the water a light pink. Watching the darkening water spiral down the drain, his brain reminds him what that substance was... my blood. Tilting his head slightly, he scans down his left arm, spying the guilty evidence of his stupidity.

His pale skin was barely visible under the dried dark red coating covering his arm. The stain stretched up his forearm, past the elbow and up to his shoulder. There, five deep lacerations were carved into his flesh, the deepest of them still oozing a thin trickle of brighter red. Normally, the sight of such injuries would shock most people into doing something, but all Finn could bring himself to do was stare at the weeping wounds. He had failed once again, it wasn't enough. Turning his face away, he brings it up to stare into the mirror, into his own bluish-green eyes.

Once, those eyes held so much life, so much joy and enthusiasm. The eyes of a care free youth who had everything; friends, family, fame and more. Now those same wonder-filled orbs of his youth were glazed over and listless. Rings of darkened flesh surround his blood-shot eyes. His once golden blond hair hung limp, dirty and matted around his head. Days old stubble and a thin beard did little to disguise his unhealthily pallor. His flesh was deathly pale, stretched tightly across his skull, giving him the over-all appearance of either one who was very ill or on the verge of death.

As his eyes scan further down his reflection, other issues quickly become evident. His pale skin was marred with deep patches of sickly yellow and purple areas, healing bruises of various sizes. Scattered among those injuries were more visible wounds, some fresher than others. Some were just scars, the flesh raised and puckered were his body had knit itself together. Others, deep red scabs barely starting to heal shut. None were thankfully as fresh as the ones gracing his shoulder, but many weren't much older.

Closing his eyes, he stands still, listening to the sound of the water. No matter how much he tried, he couldn't just bring himself to finish things. Part of him WOULDN'T let him. He had a debit that needed to be paid. A single tear forms, slipping free to slide down his cheek. My failure. He knew that she wouldn't want him to do this to himself, but he had to. He had to be punished, to suffer for his failure. For her life.

Clutching the edges of the sink, a strangled sob escapes him. I get to live while she doesn't. I should be the one rotting in the earth, worms feasting on my worthless corpse. More tears force their selves free as his eyes open, staring not at the image in the mirror, but one burned into his mind. The anger he held toward himself made him tense up, a snarl forming across his lips.

"I'm no hero, I'm only a failure." He can feel the emotions inside building, the pressure inside his skull ramping up. The heartache, the sorrow, the rage at his failure to stop one raving lunatic, one pathetic excuse of a man from ending the life of one he held dear. "NO! No more...I don't want to remember..." he whimpers, his body shaking as fear floods through his tortured mind. All he can see is Flame Princess, her once beautiful face contoured into a mask of shock, of pain... pain he caused. That he failed to prevent! Her eyes, the coal black orbs that would always show all the emotions she tried so hard to hide, wide open in terror. All because of one foolish man, one insane fool that he couldn't bring himself to strike down.

Another cry erupts from him as the vision in his head expands, showing the once vibrant flaming body of Flame Princess, lying on the ground, cold, dark and still. Protruding from her chest was a foot long spear of ice, partially melted by the elemental's life blood, her hand still weakly grasping the offending object. Then he sees her killer, the crazed man from Wizard City, the criminal that had stolen the Ice King's crown. He stood there, laughing at the dying princess, mocking him as he knelt beside her. All because he couldn't bring himself to strike that man down when he had the chance.

Wailing, he releases the sink and grabs his head. Everything he felt that day was a fresh as the second it happened. The horror, the way something inside him broke and died, and finally, the rage. The blinding, thought erasing rage that surged up from within. The rage that drove him to leap toward the guilty man, striking him across the face. That strike had knocked the accursed crown from his head, but it did nothing to extinguish the storm of violent madness raging inside. He beat that man, mercilessly, ignoring his cries and pleas to stop. Only after the man had stopped moving had Finn stopped his onslaught, pushing away from the bloody body to retrieve his fallen blade. Picking up the weapon, he had stalked back toward the bloodied wizard, the man franticly trying one last time to plead with him. Whatever words he may have spoken, fell on deaf ears. He brought down his sword and silenced him forever.

Standing there, gasping for breath like a fish out of water, he could do nothing to stop the memory ripping though his half-healed heart. Shaking, listening to his heart hammer inside his chest, he opens his tear stained eyes. He wasn't standing on that distant plain, rather his own neglected bathroom. Something reflects the weak moonlight, catching his gaze and drawing it to the edge of the sink. Groaning, his hand lashes out, grabbing a metallic object.

It was small in his palm, cold and hard, but comforting. Opening his fingers, he stares at the straight-edged razor, an old world antique that he found many years ago. It had taken him months to learn how to sharpen the blade, longer to figure out how to use the item without drawing blood. Now, that was all he did with it. It was but one of many items he used to punish himself for his failure.

Flicking the blade open, he places the top edge against the skin of his chest, above the space where his traitorous heart kept beating. With the slightest pressure, the metal cuts into his flesh. Gently, ever so slowly, he drags the blade down. Bright crimson blood wells forth, racing the metal down his skin as he carves a line diagonally across his chest. Coming to a stop, he withdraws the blade and places it back against his flesh, this time opposite from the first incision. He repeats the movement, completing the bloody X over his heart. Staring down at the fresh wound, he watches as his blood drains from the mark. There was a good deal pouring out, but it wasn't enough to cover the old raised scars that line the same area. This wasn't the first time he had done this, in this exact location, but thankfully it still had the same reassuring effect.

As more of his life weeps down his chest, his breathing starts to relax, the hammering in his chest and head weaken and subside. The sweet intoxicating pain was there, soothing the overwhelming madness, but it wasn't enough. Gradually the tremors lessen, but the ache, the hallow hole inside was still there. The small blade slips from his hand, clattering loudly in the silence against the floor. It will never be enough, ever. One day he knows that he'll go too far, do too much, dig too deep. It would be easier to finish it fast, to go and finally put his wretched carcass out of its misery. To end it all. But, where was the punishment, where was the atonement for his crimes? He owed her that much and so more, there could be no amount of penance he could pay to even that debit. Nor the one he owed to the contemptible bastard that hurt her. If he wasn't so weak, wasn't bound by a trifling set of morals that prevented him from stopping that madman in the first place, none of this would matter.

"It's all my fault." More tears came, surprising him. In his condition, he shouldn't even be alive, but his body had an agenda of its own. Nearly a month of starvation later, he still held enough strength to move. His body healed enough damage to allow him to continue. All the blood loss, the bruising, even a few broken bones weren't enough to still his aching heart. To numb his broken mind. Living was his punishment.

*ring, ring* The sound echoes throughout the empty treehouse, faint but demanding. Unbidden, his eyes leave the bleeding ruin of his chest, rising up to once again stare at the figure reflected in the mirror. *ring, ring* For nearly a month, the only sounds he heard where those of his own causing. Now, from out of the blue, someone was attempting to breach his solitude.

"Phone? Phone..." Turning from the ghostly sight in the mirror, he stumbles out into the hallway as the sound repeats itself. Where did I leave it? Fighting off a sudden weakness, he forces his defiant limbs to obey, to march forward as he struggles to remember where he left the nagging electronic device. *ring, ring* The sound was annoying, grating on what little nerves he had left and threatening to bring back the rage he just fought back. Why did I keep that thing? No one cares, no one bothers me unless... they want something.

Caught in thought, he pays little attention to his surroundings. So when a foot catches on the crumbled rug, he's unaware and trips, falling forward. Years of adventuring experience thankfully trained his body's reflexes to react over thinking and he manages to twist mid-fall, catching himself inches away from smashing his skull against the wall. Sadly, although he spared his head a possible mortal wound, it didn't treat his fresh injuries with any kindness. Pain explodes down his arm and across his chest, ripping a scream from him. Grabbing his chest with his uninjured arm, he curls over onto his side, shaking. Black spots play across his vision as the pain washes though him in waves.

*ring, ring* His eyes roam the area, trying to locate that damnable hellish device. Where in Glob...?

*ring, ring* His eyes focus on a flash of light, illumining the doorway to his left. Slowly he uncurls, using his good arm to push himself up. *ring, ring* Sure enough, as the sound comes again, the flash joins it. Pushing up, he struggles to regain his feet, careening forward into the room. In the darkness, he can make out various furniture, but not the item he was seeking. Taking a few more steps into the room the sound comes again and this time he can see its location. On a table sat his old backpack, torn and ragged, but familiar. The flap was open, several random items from within scattered across the wooden surface, including the one he was seeking.

Lurching forward, he grabs the strange cobbled-together phone just as it rings again. Its small screen flashes white, momentarily blinding him. Not wanting to deal with its shrill cry, he stabs the receive key, raising it up to his head.

"Hello?"

"Finn, about time!" He winces, pulling the phone away slightly. "What they hey, you shouldn't leave a girl hanging like that man! Where's your manners?" The voice on the line was high pitched, female, but aggressive. He knew who it belonged to; Marceline. But why would she be calling now?

"Sorry, had to find the phone." Another wave of weakness comes over him, leaving him dizzy. Grabbing the edge of the table, he slowly lowers himself to his knees. Pain was everywhere, throbbing in time with his heart.

"Oh, where you asleep? Dude, it's early!" Blinking as the black spots return, he holds the phone aside to shake his head.

"Yeah... ah, what you need Mar?" His voice sounds off to him, like he was whispering. Am I? Leaning his head against the table, the room suddenly lurches.

"Well, PB and I need some help. Seems like somebody lost one of her little gadgets and refuses to do anything until she finds it." He swallows, suddenly afraid they would want him to head over right now.

"Ah... is it something... that can wait till..." A scream comes from Marcy's end, followed by loud crashing.

"No. I don't think it can. Can you please head over?" His eyes shut as he sits there, trying to make his stomach behave. Between it and the room, he was in danger of becoming violently sick. Breathing deeply, he waits, hoping maybe she'll change her mind.

"Finn?" A faint groan works its way from his throat.

"I'll come, give me some time to get dressed."