A/N: I've been working on a chapter-fic, but until I get it up, enjoy more one-shots! Here is a fic for people who like more angsty things, though it did give me some trouble... I was unsure of how I wanted the ending to go, but eventually I decided for what I picked. And, I'm not sure if this is in-character for who it features, but I identify most with her, and I've been going through some tough times lately, so my feelings are reflected through her. 'Tis good therapy ::grins:: And is free, too xD Besides, the deepest river of sorrow can be hidden beneath the most cheerful face... Inspiration comes from Beethoven's "Moonlight Sonata", Movement 1. Hence the title xD Now, read on, and review if you'd like!
Acknowledgements: Bigtime thanks go out to my friends Crmsn/Pup, and Flying Star, who were nice enough to agree to pre-reads to give me some advice on this. Thanks guys, you rock!
Disclaimer: Code Lyoko is not mine. Phooey -.-;
Moonlight Sonata
The room sat in thick silence, dark save for the silver light streaming in through the single window's half-open blinds. The bed had been meticulously made, the blanket covers tucked, the pillows straight. A shadow darkened the middle of the spread, as a solitary figure stood beside it, staring down at the solid color expanse of the blanket. The shadow shifted as she turned and sat down, sliding until her back met the wall.
She folded her legs against her chest, and wrapped her arms around her knees. Bands of light streamed across her pallid face; it also caught a metallic gleam tucked between two fingers.
A drop of blood hit the wrinkled blanket.
It had been harder than usual, lately. A soft sigh broke the quiet, and was followed by a muted thump as she let the back of her head hit the wall. Her eyes stared up at the ceiling for a long moment, before she let them close.
Sometimes she wondered how the others could deal with it. Oh sure, they each had their own ways of taking the pressures given with life. A finger flicked over the razor, recoiling at the sharp bite. And, she supposed, this was her way of dealing with it.
Everyone expected her to be so much. And she wasn't sure if she could live up to the image everyone else had of her. That he had of her. Oh, she knew her friends would accept her anyway. But she still felt eyes on her, watching her, waiting for her to take the wrong step that they knew was coming. A lot constantly rode on her shoulders, and the weight was beginning to crush her.
A second drop joined the first.
People say it's wrong, unhealthy, to keep things bottled up. Anger, fear, jealousy... keep those in too long, and eventually one of two things happened. Either it all exploded in everyone's faces, creating a horrific scene, or it began to leak through the cracks, slowly escaping from the tears of the soul, eroding the very fabric of someone's being. Slowly dribbling out, like the thin lines of blood flowing from the cut across her palm.
He, most of all, seemed to think the highest of her. And why shouldn't he? She had the same feelings for him, even if it confused her sometimes. Yes, he made her smile, and laugh, and feel like she meant something. He gave her words of confidence when she was feeling down, and joked with her on any good day. But, she'd noticed...it seemed to her that he thought she couldn't do any wrong. Even in all the time she'd known him, all the years... They'd only had a couple fights, and he always blamed himself, even when it was her fault. And it seemed to be part of that 'perfect' image. She wanted to hold it up, but like everything else, that wall was crumbling.
She let her chin hit her chest, which gently rose and fell as she sighed. Everyone depended on her for so much. To be a friend, a mentor, a healer, a lover... And it was possible they didn't even see that they were slowly crushing her, rather the demands she thought of were imagined or not. Oh sure, one or two knew how she felt; she'd talked to them about it. But that didn't stop the doubt that, that maybe she couldn't live up to how they saw her.
It didn't stop the tears.
A voice of reason, deep inside, told her to not worry about that. Her friends had accepted her for who, what she was, and she didn't have to fulfil any 'perfect image.' But an inner wail of sorrow overrode that one on nights like this, where she felt like she'd failed, where she hadn't been the woman she knew she could be. Every human had times like this, and, it seemed, so did she. The razor was flipped, and her fist gently closed around it. As her tears glimmered in the whispering light, she raised her head. She couldn't...she couldn't deal with this anymore. The expectations, the worries, life, it was all tumbling. And she simply couldn't just ride the wave anymore. She knew what she had to do.
The small blade caught the light along its edge as it was moved up and at the ready. Her sullen eyes watched it, kept track of it as she moved it, to make sure it hit its mark. And...
She winced, and cut.
Sitting forward, she moved her hand, holding a pinch of severed hairs between two fingers. The small razor, one strand stuck to the blood on it, had found a home in her pocket. She softly blew the hairs from her fingers, watching as they drifted to the floor. Then, standing, she cleaned her tears and walked out, to go tell him everything...
Why she hadn't been so warm lately.
Why she cried every night.
And to see what he really thought about her.
A puff of wind from the shutting door hit the separated curls, sending them tumbling into a strip of light, each shining pink in the silver glow.