Disclaimer : I do not own Kingdom Hearts, its characters, or anything associated.

Author's Note: Sort of embarrassed to say this, but I burned myself drinking a Slurpee today. This is the result. I hope it's more profound, even though the premise is kind of silly. Oh, and I suppose you can call it AU, unless you could picture his happening in The World That Never Was.

Please enjoy, and please review. It really means a lot.

A Life Lesson

There's a table in front of me. Its wood is dark, a melancholy brown that could be called black, and its legs are short and stubby, close to the ground, almost as if someone had hacked them off.

The top is empty, scuffed and scratched from too many sharp objects, crevices where pencils have dug in or where a pair of scissors nicked through paper too deep. Stains are splattered across the ruined surface, raised bubbles from where I should've dropped a coster but didn't, even though I should've.

Even though I'm sure he told me to, more than once. But I've never been one to listen to anyone else, never listened to that tiny voice in the back of my head that told me I should. I also never thought I was stupid, but I guess there was one lesson he finally could hammer into my head. All it took was for him to leave.

I'm standing barefooted on the paneled floor, the cold sinking through my skin and freezing my bones in a way I've never liked. My green eyes feel heavy, uncomfortable like the restless static in my head, but that doesn't keep me from staring at the piece of furniture in my path.

I wonder how I've never noticed how similar we are.

Both of us, destroyed in little ways, repulsive to anyone but ourselves, uncaring to how we appeared to those around us, blind to the impact we have on the world.

Then again, maybe I've just lost it, comparing myself to a table.

I walk forward smoothly, dropping the object in my hand onto the surface, almost ironically gleeful at the condensation that dribbles down the plastic and cries on the wood. The stuff's old, the wrapper faded and crinkled from being pushed to the side of the fridge in favor of something better, but I'm not exactly looking for quality.

I sit down on the couch, hating and loving how stiff the cushions are, but then again, I didn't buy it, it isn't mine, and the memories worsen and lessen the discomfort. There's nothing else in my hands, no cups, no mugs, not even a bowl to be desperate.

The room's empty besides us, me and the bottle, oh and the table, too (the couch doesn't count, because it's his). There's no television, I broke that on Tuesday, no clocks or lamps; that was Thursday. I let out a cynical laugh, pushing some of the outgrown red hair from my eyes.

Not even a month, and I'm already falling apart.

I unscrew the cap, relishing the rush of air that bursts from the top, thankful that the bubbles don't overflow like a volcano to make a mess. The brown liquid sloshes a little when I pick it up, just nearing the edge but not sadistic enough to tip over.

Tipping the bottle back to my mouth, I let it rush inside, swallowing it quickly.

The feeling of caffeine against my throat is welcome, smooth, with just the tiniest hitch of rawness as it goes down.

See, it's easy at first. It tastes good, it is good. You're not giving anything up, divulging any piece of yourself; there's no downside. Just take a little bit, and let it go. Let it go.

I take another swing, the soda pushing past my lips and preparing for the journey down my throat. I place the bottle back down, rest my hands on the thick black fabric covering my knees, and wait.

I don't swallow.

It's not much at the beginning, just little waves against my cheeks, the roof of my mouth. It moves, swishing back and forth in a little dance of uncertainty while my tongue lies like a beached whale in the center. A few seconds go by.

Then it begins to burn.

It sizzles and bubbles, froths and hisses, scorching my taste-buds with fiery hands and charring the delicate skin around it with bursts of flame. It wails and shrieks, furious and captive, and then finally I gulp, and it's gone. The pain lingers, little flashes that eventually subside and fade. My mouth still aches.

See, that's the mistake. It's fine when all you want is a quick passing of happiness, the fleeting quenching of a thirst. Once you need something more, a presence that doesn't disappear in a few fast moments, you get hurt. You can't keep something, try to force it somewhere it doesn't want to go, with someone it doesn't want to be with. You try to have it, and it scars you, it hurts you. It rips you apart and escapes, leaving you howling with agony and frustration.

Of all the useless lessons my parents taught me, to look both ways before crossing the street, never to take candy from strangers, I wish they had at least attempted this. Because I'd rather get run-over by a speeding car, or end up at the bottom of someone's basement in sixteen pieces.

It'd hurt less.

I look down at the brewing bottle, the fizzing bubbles popping and churning.

How could a bottle of carbonated soda teach me the one thing that could have saved me, a month too late? How could a corporate made product designed just for the desire of making money, teach me what God himself never could?

The soda's back in my hand, molding itself around my fingers as if it was meant to be there. I tip my head back and guzzle it into my mouth, filling until my cheeks are ready to burst.

It hurts ten times worse this time, but that doesn't stop me from doing it again and again, feeling my skin dying and rebelling against the command of my irresponsible leadership.

Because this is a lesson I need to learn, even if it's already been seared into my brain by another. I need the reminder, and that's why I'm not drowning myself in something alcoholic, something that will sweet coat my troubles in a drunken haze, letting me laugh and grin again. I'm not looking for that; I'm not looking to feel better.

I'm looking to hurt, to remind myself how stupid I was.

So I never make that mistake again.