Trigger Warning: This story will contain depression, suicidal thoughts, and suicide attempts throughout its entirety. That is why this story is labeled as mature. Please don't read if you have a problem with this subject matter.

Disclaimer: I don't own any of the characters or story line that makes Ouran Highschool Host Club the absolutely amazing tale that it is. That honor belongs to Bisco Hatori.

A/N: I'm trying something very different with this story. Generally, I write 3rd person stories in past tense, but I decided to make this one 1st person present. It was necessary to really get into Haruhi's head, and I hope that won't turn too many of you away from this fic. I know that reading I/me/my my can be off-putting for a lot of people; I hope you'll give it a chance anyway.

Let me know what you think!

Chapter One

There are five stages of grief; I read about them once. Denial, anger, bargaining, depression, acceptance. I'm pretty sure I skipped through them faster than is healthy or normal. Probably in an hour or two. I don't think denial ever hit me at all. I'm not some naive child who's never suffered loss. I saw his lifeless body laying on that cold metal table, and I knew he was gone. Bargaining never visited either, and I don't expect it to. I don't believe in magic or wishes or gods. There's no such thing in reality as a life for a life. I won't waste my time with ridiculous prayers.

Anger. That one I felt, but in reverse, I think. I've heard of people being mad at loved ones for leaving them, but it's not him that I was mad at. Depression...that one I felt too. Still feeling, probably, when I feel anything, that is. After the initial shock wore off and I was finally alone, a few tears fell, but I didn't let them continue. What has crying ever done for me? It's never made me feel better or fixed whatever problem that may have caused the reaction. So, I shut it down. I won't spend my days with blurred vision and tear tracks down my face when it gets me nothing. Those few tears were more than enough.

Acceptance is a dumb name for a stage. No one ever accepts the loss, they just learn to live with it. Maybe the last stage should be called 'Trudging Along' or 'Acting Like It's Fine.' Those are more accurate, anyway.

I've thought about the stages too much, probably, when there are other things I should be focusing on today.

I can tell it's cold out, but I don't even feel it. Everyone is wearing layers of clothes or large puffy jackets. Several have umbrellas by their sides, waiting for the inevitable downpour as forewarned by the dark clouds overhead. I'm just in a dress. The other hosts are around, behind me, I think. One of them tried to grab my hand when they arrived, probably some show of support, but I shook them off. I don't want support.

I want my dad.

The few glances I've spared have told me that I hardly know anyone here. It's mostly work friends, and I wasn't part of that world. I should be grateful that my own friends have turned up. A familiar face is comforting, isn't it? It should be. Right now it's nothing to me.

Mostly, I'm just staring at the ground or at the small container of what's left. What else am I supposed to do? That's a stupid question. I'm supposed to cry, but the few tears I shed after the shock wore off were enough, it seems. There are no tears left. I'm supposed to be angry at the unfairness of the world, but I've always known the world doesn't cater to the less fortunate. This is nothing new. I'm supposed to plead for this all to be a dream, but even my worst nightmares never touched this. Dreams are never as bad as reality. I know I'm supposed to let the stages take their course and then I'm supposed to find my way back to normal. I don't remember normal.

I keep replaying that day, over and over again. I didn't answer the phone when it rang. I should have answered the fucking phone. I might've saved enough time. Dinner was cooking and I was afraid it would burn. At the time, that seemed more important. But I managed to hear the caller leave a message over the banging of my spoon against the pot and the sizzling of the meat. The voice identified herself as a nurse before informing me that my father was badly hurt and that I should return the call as soon as possible. I lunged for the phone, trying to answer before she hung up, but failed. I had to replay the message twice to get the number down that she ran through too quickly, and then my fingers kept fumbling over the buttons. I eventually managed to press them all in the right sequence and then I waited. And I waited and waited and I swear no one anywhere in the world has ever taken so long to pick up a phone. I think it was really only three or four rings.

The journey to the hospital was a blur. I know I took the train but how I got to or from the stations is a mystery to me. I guess I should count myself lucky for not getting run over. Lucky. Right. I asked a nurse for help, and she typed entirely too noisily on her keyboard to look up his information. She frowned, and looked at me. Her eyes went back to the screen and up to me again. I almost lost my temper. She called a doctor over, and he told me to follow him.

In an empty patient room, he told me I was too late.

They showed me his face, clean and pale, but adorned with cuts and scrapes, proving it had just been bloody. His body was covered, and I can't imagine the horrors it must have hidden. A woman, just a few stitches above her eye, grabbed my hand in both of hers. She was crying, apologizing to me for not seeing him sooner. Apologizing for something she can never make up for.

I didn't even get to say goodbye.

I'm numb. I've felt enough and I'm just done with it. I want this to be over with already so I can finally be alone. Everyone wants to help, but there's nothing they can do. No one could've saved him then. No one can help me now.

All that's left of him is hidden away in a concrete locker. A square foot chunk of space, surrounded by countless identical spaces. From a distance, you can't even tell which one is his. At least he's next to mom.

I turn to leave, noticing a jacket fall to the ground. Someone must've placed it on my shoulders at some point. I don't try to pick it up; it's not like I need it. I push past the gaggle of people behind me, ready to be home. Some of them might've called my name, offered condolences (again), asked if there was anything they could do. I can't be sure; I don't even try to listen. Someone tries to grab my arm and I jerk away, never slowing my pace.

I leave the cemetery, starting my walk home. The bus would be faster, but I'm not looking for speed. All I want now is solitude and the blissful silence that comes with it. External silence that is. The silence that comes when there's no one around to tell me just how sorry they are for me and look at me, eyes full of pity. I can't stand it.

Internal silence doesn't exist though. Could I have saved him? It might have been easy. If I had delayed him by a minute, or urged him to leave earlier to ensure he wouldn't be late. I could've volunteered to go with him or in his stead. Hell, I bet one of the hosts would've given me a ride if I asked. Or him a ride. Why didn't I ask? Why didn't I do anything different? How could I let this happen? One of the stages should be called 'Blame.' In my head, I know this isn't my fault, but... I'm so sorry, dad.

I walk and think endlessly. At some point, the rain finally breaks free of the clouds. Some vague memory of the butterfly effect wonders into my head, and I can't help the morbid curiosity of which butterfly flapped its wings at just the right moment and angle to have caused this. Maybe I should start a butterfly farm. If you get enough of them close together, does one wing flap negate another?

When I finally reach my building, I can't help my reaction to opening the front door. "I'm home." I realize my mistake before I've even gotten my second foot inside. There's no one to announce my presence to. There never will be again.

My mother's shrine is no longer hers alone. I added a picture of my father a few days ago. In front of it, there's a blanket on the floor where I've spent my nights. I sit there now, wrap the blanket around myself and just gaze at the shrine. Eventually, I lay down in the same place, staring. I forego dinner. I can't remember the last time I ate an actual meal. It doesn't seem like a necessity these days. Sleep always comes eventually.

A knock at the door wakes me up. It's what has woken me up everyday for the past week. If it weren't for this annoyance, I might just lay there all day. Maybe I would lay there forever. Maybe I would wither away. Maybe that would be nice.

The knocking continues until I open it. Today, it's Kyoya. It takes his eyes traveling down my body for me to realize I'm still in my dress from yesterday. It's dry now and horribly rumpled. It's amazing I don't feel sick, actually. Maybe good health is what you get for making a blood sacrifice. That has to be the most morbid and worst deal I've ever heard. Is that what they call gallows humor? A fleeting thought wonders how much he's judging me for my disheveled appearance. Probably a lot considering how prim and proper he always is. I don't care, and I don't invite him in. I don't even offer a greeting, content to just stare at him.

It's the same as it has been all week. Yesterday it was Honey, tomorrow will probably be Hikaru or Kaoru again. They've been taking turns checking in on me. They cleaned up the mess I left in the kitchen in my haste to reach the hospital. It wasn't until a few days after the incident that I found out Kyoya had sent someone to my apartment to shut off all the burners, and prevented my home from going up in smoke. The cookware had been completely ruined by then, though. They ask how I'm doing, and what I need. They barge in, food usually in hand, and remind me to eat. I always take a few bites to appease them. They won't shut up if I don't. Later, it all comes back up. Nothing will stay down.

Sometimes they lay out a change of clothes for me and draw a bath. Sometimes they offer to take me out of my stuffy home. They're uncomfortable here. They always try to hide it with their smiles and reassurances, but I'm not blind. My home is depressing, and most of them are innately happy. They can't handle it and I don't want them to. I always get them to leave after some time.

Kyoya ignores my lack of courtesy, gently pushing his way past me and invading my sanctuary. As expected, he starts a bath for me. I humor him; it gives me more time to myself. Laying back in the hot water I'm not deaf to the noise Kyoya is making in the rest of the house. It sounds like he's moving things around. At one point I hear him talking, but I can't make out what he's saying. I dunk my head under to drown it out.

I don't get out until the water turns cold. There are clothes waiting for me, including panties and a bra, and I know I should be embarrassed that a boy has gone through my underwear, but I can't muster up the energy. I don't care for the clothes he's picked today, and opt to just wrap a towel around the middle of my body, securing it at the top. I'll pick out my own clothes. I step into the hall and freeze. There are people here I don't know, packing boxes. I glance around, looking for an explanation.

Opening the bathroom door must've alerted Kyoya who peaks into the hall. I see him raise an eyebrow as he takes in my attire. I should be embarrassed about that too. "I left clothes for you, Haruhi," he states, as if I was completely blind and missed them. I can hear some of the superiority seeping back into his voice and less of the soothing voice he's been trying out on me. I almost want to point out that his kid gloves are slipping.

"What's going on?" I decide to ignore his statement.

"They're packing up your things. As of today you'll be living at the Ootori estate, so we're going to get you moved in. If you'll get dressed I'll answer any questions you have."

"Wait, what? I'm not moving anywhere. I live here, senpai."

"I really can't explain until you're wearing clothes, Haruhi. Please." He waves a hand at my towel and I glance down at it. When I look back up he's looking away. It seems he's the one embarrassed. How very un-Kyoya of him.

"Fine, whatever." I head toward my room, but don't get passed my dad's. His door, which has remained firmly shut since that day, was now wide open. Two people are inside, fitting knick knacks into boxes. I completely lose it. "WHAT ARE YOU DOING?" I guess I do have some rage in me. Maybe I'm regressing through the stages.

The two packers stop and look up at me, but I don't give them a chance to speak. "GET. OUT." I want to break their hands for touching his things and physically throw them out, but I can't step foot in there. Not yet. My glare was enough though, as they were quick to vacate the room. I grab the door handle and slam it shut. I round on them, furious. "How, dare you go into that room. How dare you touch his things! What gives you the right?"

"Haruhi, I apologize." I turn to Kyoya, finding a new outlet for my anger. He holds his hands up, palms facing me. Is he seriously trying to calm me down? "I thought you would want his things to come too, but if you want to pack it yourself that's fine. We'll leave the shrine to you as well." His kid gloves are back, voice slow and soothing and completely unnatural for him. I hate it.

"Oh my god." It was barely a whisper as I run by him in a panic, needing to see the shrine for myself. No one has touched it yet, and I kneel down in front of it, taking a shaky breath.

Kyoya follows me of course, and only allows my a few minutes before he interrupts my silent vigil. "Haruhi, you need to get dressed. Most of your room has already been packed, so you'll have to stick with the things I picked out for you. Please." He gestured back to the bathroom.

I look up at him, the anger now wiped from my face. I'm back to not feeling again, and decide to get dressed after all. Why not? I dress languidly and rejoin Kyoya who is sitting on my sofa. "Why will I be living with you?"

"Well, the others wanted to take you in too of course, but were unable to. Tamaki's grandmother disapproves wholeheartedly so there was no chance there. The Hitachiin home is undergoing some renovations so it was less than ideal. The Haninozuka's and Morinozuka's are both strict households that don't have time for the 'frivolity' of the host club or its drama. Luckily my father likes you and he owes me a favor."

I just stare. What can I say to all of that? "How is this 'host club' drama? This has nothing to do with the club." It's probably the least important thing I could've asked, but maybe I'm working my way up.

"Your problems are ours as well." It's not a sufficient answer for the old Haruhi, but me? I don't care enough to make him elaborate.

"And why am I moving at all? What's wrong with my apartment?" There, those questions matter.

"Haruhi..." Kyoya drifts off, frowning. He clearly doesn't know how to voice his explanation, which honestly kind of scares me. If Kyoya Ootori couldn't find the words, I really wasn't going to like this. He tries again. "Haruhi...how do you plan to pay for this apartment? You can't work while you're in school, and it's only paid through next week."

"Maybe I'll drop out." That's the first time the thought crossed my mind, and I immediately throw the idea out. I can't leave Ouran. I shake my head, letting Kyoya know I don't mean that. "I don't know. I could get a loan." That was a better idea.

"It's not just the money, Haruhi. You're a minor." I don't speak, waiting for him to continue. What does it matter how old I am? "People in your situation tend to go to group homes."

"My situation?" Now I'm the one with a raised eyebrow. He just needs to spit it out already.

Kyoya looks away for a moment, taking a deep breath. I expect this treatment with the others, but I'm seriously sick of it coming from Kyoya. The Kyoya I know is straight-forward and would never waste this kind of time beating around the bush. Just spit it out! "You're an orphan now, Haruhi." My sharp intake of breath stops him from continuing. There it is. Maybe beating around the bush isn't all bad. I knew this fact already, but I hadn't said it aloud. I haven't said any of it out loud. That makes it too real. "...you were going to be sent to an orphanage. At your age, it's doubtful you would've found a foster home before you aged out of the system." As an afterthought, he offers an apologetic whisper, "I'm sorry, Haruhi."

I shake my head, not wanting the apology. Not wanting any of this. "Does that mean you'll be my foster family?" It was a stupid question. In another life, it might've been a joke.

"Not in so many words. My family's lawyers stepped in before the government could claim your dependence. Basically, my father laid a big enough claim as friends of the family, for your guardianship to rightfully transfer to him." Meaning he donated a chunk of money. "He'll be your legal guardian, but that doesn't make him a father figure or me a brother." Kyoya pauses again, and I continue to stare. Does he want me to say something now? It's not like I can argue if they went to all the trouble. "None of us wanted your life to completely get uprooted, Haruhi. I hope you'll forgive me for acting without asking you."

I roll my eyes. When have any of the hosts ever asked my permission ahead of time? "But I can keep everything?" I would need to sort through what I wanted and needed. There would be no need to keep measuring spoons or knife sets if I wasn't going to have my own kitchen.

"Anything you want, yes. There's plenty of room for you."

Looking around my living room, there's hardly anything left. Pictures have been taken down, the book shelf is all packed up. Do I need any of it? I walk to an open box and start throwing things out of it. I don't care where they land, I'm on a mission. Kyoya's watching me, and I'm glad when he keeps his mouth shut. When that box is empty I go to the next. Half way through, I find what I'm looking for. It's a photo album. I run my hand over the hard blue cover, remembering all the times I've flipped through it. I need this.

Clutching it to my chest I head to the shrine in the corner. I sit in front of it as I have so many times lately, and look over at Kyoya. "What is this going to cost me, senpai? It might be cheaper for me to stay here."

Kyoya shook his head. "This isn't like the vase, Haruhi. Speaking of which, now that you're a member of my household, I'll be officially paying your debt off. You don't need to worry about money now."

I look back at the shrine, and sit in silence for a while. The packing continues in other rooms and I try to ignore it. After a while, I relax my grip on the photo album and lean it against the shrine. Retrieving the box I'd previously emptied, I set to work meticulously packing up the shrine. Everything is carefully wrapped and gently placed into the box, including the album. "You'll see the light again soon," I murmur as I add the framed pictures of each parent.

Finished, I stand up to look at Kyoya again who hasn't stopped watching me. He's probably waiting for a mental breakdown or something. I hope he isn't holding his breath. "I want everything to go to charity." Just because I apparently don't need to worry about money doesn't mean there weren't plenty of people in poverty still. "Everything in the kitchen except the cookbooks, all the furniture, the books, the knick knacks. I don't need any of it. I want everything from my shrine, my clothes, and I need to go through my dad's room."

"I'll let them know." Kyoya finally stood to talk to the person in charge of these home invaders. He gestures to various things as he speaks, and the man nods along. I don't stick around, trusting Kyoya not to let me down.

In the hall, my dad's bedroom door is still firmly shut. I approach it and lay a hand on the knob. A simple twist of the wrist and I'll be in. That's all I have to do. I take a deep breath, preparing myself. I count to three, vowing to turn the handle, and fail to do so. "Damn it," I curse under my breath and lean my head against the door. My hand is frozen to the door knob. Why can't I open it?

"Haruhi," Kyoya says, coming up behind me. "Do you want some help?"

"No." I don't need help to open a damn door. I'm not that pathetic. I try to move my hand again, willing it to twist the knob. When it remains still I bang my head on the door, letting out a grunt of frustration. And hey, at least that's another emotion, right? I'm really coming along now.

"Let me help you, Haruhi. I'll just open the door, okay? I won't go in." I don't answer and he takes that as my consent. His hand squeezes over top of mine on the handle and twists. "You have to let go now," he reminds me, gently pulling my hand away from the door. It swings open.

I don't remember how to move. I haven't been in this room since before the accident, and I can't go in now. Everything in there is a reminder of what I'm missing. I turn away from it, intending to leave, and Kyoya grabs my shoulders, holding me in place. "You have to do this, Haruhi. I know it's hard, but it needs to be done."

"I can't." I shake my head just once, and wait for him to let me go. He doesn't.

"Then I need to send someone else in there to pack it up. You can go through it another time. When you're ready."

I want to laugh in his face. I'll never be ready for this. I force myself to be anyway. No way in hell am I letting someone else touch my dad's things. What right do they have? I pivot back towards the door and step forward.

It feels like I passed through an invisible barrier as his perfume abruptly hits me. How could I not smell that in the hall? I take a few more tentative steps into the room, and cautiously sit on the bed. It's unmade. A pillow has tumbled to the ground, blankets have been tossed aside. Palms down, I rub the sheets. He didn't know he'd never be getting back into this bed. Would knowing have changed how he left it?

I stand back up, approaching his dresser. There's a stack of what were once folded pants, and are now a precariously balanced pile of cloth falling out in every direction. A wooden jewelry box is next to it, lid open, displaying several necklaces. I'm pretty sure it was my moms before my dad started using it. I run a hand over it before moving on. His nightstand holds a picture of mom and a ceramic handprint. It's something I made when I was little; I can't believe he still has it all these years later. Well, had it. The closet is bursting with clothes that are arranged perfectly to make them all fit. I don't think I could replace anything if I removed it.

I turn my gaze on Kyoya, waiting in the doorway, and then look one final time around the room. It's nothing but clothes I'll never fit into, trinkets I'll never use, and pointless beautifying products. I push my way past Kyoya. "Donate it all. I don't want it." None of it matters anymore. It's not dad's anymore and it's not mine, so they do have every right.

"Are you sure?" Kyoya is skeptical. I don't answer because I'm not sure. But I can't say that. I just want to be done with this. I walk down the hall and out the front door. Leaning over the railing of the front walkway I spot a waiting limo. I have no doubt it's Kyoya's, and head down to it. The driver rushes out when he realizes who I am, but I beat him to the door. I open it myself, and close it behind me, ignoring his apology. Not a single glance is spared for my apartment as I await Kyoya.

It takes ten minutes for him to join me, time probably spent giving more instructions to the workers. "Take us home," he tells the driver, before turning to me. "Haruhi-" I turn away from him, preferring to spend the ride looking through the window. Kyoya doesn't try to say anything else.