An Endless Day

A quick oneshot of Roy right after he returned from Ishval. No pairing, all angst.


When was the last time he slept? The cold dregs of old coffee do nothing to banish the weariness that seeps into his skin like a poison dragging him down down down into dark pits of his own making. There were times when each day was separated by sleep, but now they run together, an endless montage of work and bars. Hangovers are the norm now but he can't stop. Not when the floor's been burnt to ashes and all he has holding him up is his cowardice of death.

Spineless. That's what he is. Can't even take his own life like he knows he should. Even after killing all those people. Each face, each pair of red eyes that looked at him in absolute terror is burnt in his memory. The screams, the pleading, the families he destroyed, there is nothing he could ever give that would be equivalent to their pain.

Then to top it off he got a promotion, a title, became a fucking war hero and for what? For looking at a young boy holding his father's gun and snapping him to smithereens. These people who call him a hero don't know war. They don't see the eyes of their best friends turn empty and cold with their own guilt, or try to hold the guts in of a solider you know is going to die but you try anyway because damn it what else are you supposed to do. The heat of the sands burn his skin and sting his eyes until all he can do is fall to his knees and cry dried up tears.

He questions a God that does this. That puts such a hate into men that they do this to one another. He remembered being young and drawing his first array, thinking it was like some magic from God, but God was a cheep joke pawned off to the ignorant to make them feel more important. There was no God. There's just the endless screaming as his gloves are so soaked with blood you can't make out the red array that caused so much destruction. He doesn't even know if it's his own screaming or the child of the mother he just murdered.

He sits on his bed, the cold barrel of the gun resting on his temple as the latest bottle of liquor rests empty in his limp grasp. All he has to do is move his finger one inch, but he can't do it…he just sits and stares at the cold dregs of coffee wishing the nightmares would let him sleep.