Hey Min'na!

This is the firstfan-fiction I have ever writen/posted here, so please R&R! I would really appreciate reviewsto see how I'm doing. Any compliments and/or appropriate critizism would be great, and if you have anything in mind forwhat the future of this fan-fic will be, add that too. I get majorwriter's block, so pleasebe patient with me.More reviews more chapters. Domo arigatou!

Love and love, Glamour Boy.

Flames dance all around my body, licking gently at my flesh. I'm drowning in the fire, struggling for air, struggling for breath...

The memory is painted across my mind, never allowing me to forget, and I think about it every conscious moment. For every breath I take, I pay for it with that memory. My family had been taken from me, and for what reason, I do not know. I don't know what they have done to deserve it. I don't know what I had done to deserve to remain alive, living in this endless misery of guilt. I wish I had died with them. But, unfortunately, I am not an easy one to kill.

I had stumbled out of that house, half-alive, and watched it burn to the ground with my family still inside as I collapsed on the ground. I didn't know what was happening and what I was to do. I had hardly been conscious then. Too much had been happening at once. I had been stripped of everything I had lived for.

Despite how damaged my emotional and mental self had been, I was harmed little physically, though I still bear scars from that time in my life today. And then I did the only thing I thought I could have done: run away. But can it really be called running away when there was nothing left to run away from?

I am going to die. I can feel it. I'm not in any immediate danger from anyone in particular, the exception being myself. I sit in a bar, slouching over a table, counting the little money I have left from pick pocketing. I pay no one any mind, and in return, no one bothers me. It all evens out.

I look straight ahead, staring at a stray lock of red hair that falls in front of my eyes, wondering how long I can go without brushing it aside. My childish form of entertainment. But I can tell you from experience there's not much going for entertainment when you're at the mercy of poverty. I then decide that this is completely irrelevant to the matter most important at hand: my 'suicide mission;' that is, my mission to end my life. I brush the hair out of my face, and look once more at the money before me.

There's probably enough for seven meals, a week's worth if I only have one meal a day. So I'm guaranteed seven more days to live, unless someone decides to attack me for some reason. Or I could drown myself and my misery in booze. There's enough for a few drinks. Would they question my age? I am not old enough to even be in a bar, being sixteen, but no one has attempted to kick me out. Another possibility comes to my mind. There's more than enough for a few bullets, but nothing much can be said about a gun. I'd have to steal one, and maybe there'll already be bullets in it if I'm lucky...

I sweep the money off the table, pocket it, and step out of the bar and into the night. In this part of town, everyone carries a gun at night. Well, almost everyone. I'm an exception. Only prostitutes, alcoholics, and people like myself who scrape a living off the streets hang out here during the night hours. So, there won't be too much trouble finding a gun.

How right I am. The next guy that passes me has a gun nestled in his pocket. He isn't trying hard to conceal it, and I have sharp eyes. Besides, he's drunk. I mean, pissed drunk. He can barely walk, for crying out loud. He stumbles into a garbage can and screams at it, "Wha' the fuck're ya looking' a'?" before falling ungracefully to the ground, unconscious. I creep silently up to him, my emaciated body moving cat-like along the walls. It's a perfect opportunity, almost too perfect, and I'm not about to let this chance escape. I need for this chance to not escape. I reach out for the gun, my tongue caught between my teeth in concentration. I don't want to rustle the man's clothes, not even the slightest bit, drunk or not. I remove the gun with an expert's hand. And now for the easy part: turning around and walking away.

And that I do...or at least the turning around part. I feel a tight grip on my shoulder and I find myself spinning around before I know what is happening to me. The drunk man's face is nose-to-nose with mine, the booze sickeningly heavy in his breath.
"I'll let ya take tha' gun for a fuck, kid."

My first thought is I hope I'm not like this when I'm drunk, talking to other men in a very sexually charged manner. My second is Damn, how come he's up and what do I do now? I think what I need to do now is set my priorities straight.

And my third is what I say to him.

"Shit, that's all I need before I pull a trigger with the gun to my head, a fuck with a drunk bastard. You can have the gun back. It'll be next to my dead body. Come and pick it up when you hear about the suicide of a teenage boy on the news."

I turn around again, frustrated for being held up. I want to get this over with before I decide to change my mind. But the man is very persistent, and I must say, very annoying. So I turn to slug him in the gut, but he grabs my wrists and pins me against an alley wall. I struggle, but my body is too weak for a fight. The guy is doing very well for being drunk, and probably is stronger than I'll ever be sober.

"Just one 'lil fuck is all I'm asking for..."
"Well, I'm not interested. Go find it elsewhere!" I shout at him.

I'm not even scared that this man is trying to force himself upon me, just enraged. He's a barrier in my mission that I need to remove. Still holding my wrists, he kneels, and then allows his right hand to trail down my chest and stomach, fiddling with my belt buckle in an attempt to remove it. This, unfortunately for him, is a grave mistake, for my body is no longer crammed between him and the wall, and my left arm is free. I grab his throat and smash his face into my knee. The man's nose gives a sickening crunch, and blood splatters out of it, most of it ending up on my ragged jeans. I throw him to the ground and coolly walk away, feeling that I've handled that situation very well.

How does one kill oneself with a gun? This question maybe less stupid than it first appears after given some thought. Where do I want to put the bullet? I sit in a dumpster with the gun pointing at my temple. It's where I belong, in the dump, with the rest of the garbage that no one has any use for anymore. I don't have any use for myself. I have nothing to live for, and nothing lives for me, so what's the point?

This is hard as hell. Okay, a piece of lead in the head or in the heart? Maybe I can twist my arm around and shoot myself in the back...is there even a bullet in the gun? I take the gun away from my head and check. One. Just one bullet. Well, if I don't die on one shot, it's going to hurt like hell. Then I'll probably die slowly and painfully. Perfect. The death I always wanted. So where do I shoot to make it most effective? If I shoot myself in the head, maybe I'll find out whether there is even a brain there.

I raise the gun back to my temple, and tighten my finger on the trigger.

I am dead to the world, and the world is dead to me.