It's morning, I know because the sunlight seeps through the curtains and illuminates your sleeping form with a soft orange. It's peaceful, you look peaceful, and I'm happy.

Of course we both know that when you wake up it'll be completely different.

When you do wake up, the first thing you do is stare at the ceiling. Your expression is grim. You mumble to yourself, not glancing up at me, not even noticing me. And when you get up, you sway on your feet, hand slamming down on the nightstand before you lose your balance. A framed picture falls face down and you reach over to fix it.

It's us.

You stare at it solemnly, and I watch you.

Again you mutter something, you do that all the time.

And I'm okay with that, because it's who you are.

You make breakfast like any other day and I take a seat across from were always good at cooking - even if it was just a simple pancake, I was surprised.

I watch as you gather up your weapons and duffle bag, slinging it over your shoulder without a word, and you walk out the door shutting it behind you.

Another day, another job.

Only recently had you gone back to your mercenary ways, I know because you tell me every night. It was never a secret.

I follow you down the street, a couple blocks and into an alleyway when you hear a scream.

I warn you not to kill, but you don't listen. My words falling on deaf ears as you sprint away. Again.

It's not the first time after all.

It's my fault.

But you know that.

And yet…you blame yourself, don't you?

I tell you this as we rush to the scene. You say nothing, not to me anyway. Whether it was to the voices in your head or the woman we were saving I'm not sure.

You draw your swords and slash away at the enemy, leaving none alive, before I could ever hope of interfering. Their blood slicing through the air in a crescent as your blade runs across their body.

The woman is terrified, paling and frozen in place. Her eyes are wide and her mouth is hanging open, unable to say a word.

You hold out a gloved hand.

"Glad you're alright," you say, "Killed those bastards for ya, they won't ever bother you again."

You chuckle.

She jerks back as you hold out your hand, letting out a pitched whimper. She turns and runs before you know it. Down the alleyway and out of sight.

You sigh, defeated. I can tell, your gaze shifts to the ground. After all this time I still can't figure out how your mask can be so expressive, and I silently hope you'll let me in on the secret.

You grunt out something about unappreciative people and stalk off.

We find ourselves at a small taco stand, and although you haven't said anything, I can almost hear you mention how cliche this would be. Possibly a rant about stories and authors. I never really did understand all that.

"You should tell me about it one day," I say, crossing my arms as we walk.

You take a large bite of the taco and say nothing, but I expected as much.

Our day continues like any other.

Patrol,food, patrol again. That's all we've been doing for the past couple of weeks.

They all end the same way as well.

We make our way back to our apartment. The room needs a makeover, I'm sure you've noticed, yet you never bothered to clean up.

Frankly, it feels more like home this way.

The red splotches that decorate the floors and walls however, were not very welcoming.

They were everywhere actually. Tinting the couch an odd brown. Crusting over the floors - it was the main reason you always had shoes on - the bathroom was the worst.

The tub was stained a rusty redish brown, and I know that's where you offed yourself the most.

Today is different though.

Today you walk past the bathroom door and into our bedroom.

You plop yourself onto the mattress of our bed, the springs squeaking and the mattress sinking under your weight.

You play with your hands for a bit, shifting slightly. I can hear you sniffling. You try to hide it, but eventually it's too much and you rip your mask off swiftly, tossing it aside. You run your hands over your head, tears running down your face like a river.

I frown as you look up with unseeing eyes. Hands slowly searching around the bed.

"I'm sorry," you start, "I killed again today. You're probably angry. Hell I'm pissed and I'm the one who chose to go through with it. But those bastards deserved it and I couldn't handle just letting them go to the cops. I mean, that's like a slap to the wrist. A few days or months and they'll be at it again. But I guess you already know this."

You laugh humorlessly.

"I don't know why I keep telling you this. My life has been uneventful and a constant disappointment."

I walk over to you, reaching out a hand. It never reaches you, for you shift again. Your hand reaches for our photo and you study it, wiping at your tears.

I want to tell you I'm sorry, but you can never hear. You never listen.

But that's my fault.

I want to say 'I love you'. I was never able to before, at least… Not as much as I had wanted to.

But that's my fault as well.

I want to apologize, because I've caused this shitstorm you call life now, and I can't fix it.

But I can't.

And it's painful watching you as the sun rises knowing full well what'll happen every night.

You're life has gone to shit.

And it's my fault.

I watch as you gently placed our photo face down, your free hand gripping against a familiar cool metal on the bed.

Your grin is pained.

I can feel it.

You chuckle again, devoid of emotion and you look at me, through me.

"I miss you." You say.

With a bang the walls are sprayed with red, like a canvas, and you fall back. Your limp body leaning against the bedframe. Your gun clattering to the ground. The bullet casing bouncing and rolling away.

"I know." I say, closing my eye's.

The sun is setting, I know because the light is seeping through the closed curtains, illuminating your limp form with a bright orange and red. It's peaceful, you look peaceful, but I'm not happy.

Neither are you.

I'm sorry.

I whisper.

But my words fall on deaf ears.

And frankly?

I don't think you'll ever hear.