Woah, two years or something along the lines?

I missed this site a hella lot. But I'm back and will probably be

writing more often here, writing reader inserts tends to get dull after a while

(though they have helped me improve my writing a whole lot!)

and I do like writing for my pairings. So I really hope you guys enjoy this.

Afterall, it might be a while before I get to write for Soul Eater again

(Homestuck and other things have become my mayor interests)

All Characters displayed in this work do not belong to me.

Hopeless

Three packs of cigarettes, an awful headache that made him feel like the world was exploding around him and an already half empty bottle of whisky are what kept him alive most days, gloomy aura in his self, he doesn't even bother to stand up from his bed and do something productive today. Or is it already night? He couldn't tell, much less care. The blinds were shut close, any light in his room radiating from the clock that told him an incorrect hour; he never bothered correcting the clock's hour. Time was something he realized, had lost its meaning years back, time only brought false senses of hope and lies, those that gave him a sort of hope over time only to be crushed when told that things would get better, Soul frowned, rolling to his side, dropping the bottle and hearing as it made a loud thud on the carpeted floor. The smell almost intoxicating, combining with the fumes of the cigarettes he had been smoking. Ruby eyes watched as the carpet obtained a darker color, the bottle almost empty.

They never got better. He thought bitterly. He remembered a time where everything was okay, everything was good. How long had it been since he had stepped foot outside his room? Probably days, weeks, months? No one cared anyways. He bitterly laughed at the thought, his own voice sounding so foreign against the silence that reigned in his bedroom, gruff, pathetic. He decides, it doesn't bother him in the slightest, no point in keeping up the façade of being okay anymore, after all. What point would there be if he couldn't acknowledge how he really felt. What point is there to remain alive –though that's a word that has lost it's meaning with the wasted minutes of his life- contradicting what you really felt? Soul Eater Evans, pathetic loser without any talent or an actual pleasant life.

It's really sad really; he thought that maybe his friends would've given up a long time ago. Vain attempts and fruitless plans were all they had, one by one they slowly stopped visiting him, Black*Star was the last one to even say something, but he never did. He had barged in, his face stoic but his eyes, they spoke so much, and for a second, Soul felt ashamed of his decisions, ashamed to be seen so horribly looking, isolated in the confines of his bedroom where the sun didn't shine, packs of cigarettes everywhere and the walls with dents in them and long slice marks that could only belong to him, but he swallowed all of that back. Through ruby eyes, he stared at his friend's green eyes.

Black*Star only stared, before sighing. That was the last time he had seen his friend. Some came at times, but never once set foot inside his room, he was thankful; he wasn't alright dealing with so many emotions at once. All he saw were different people with their lives, their happy lives, and Soul, he… he envied that, and it ate him completely up to the point of times where he would become so full of envy, rage, sadness. It exhausted him greatly. He even stopped locking his door after a while; Wes had long ago given up on trying talking to him to play the piano, to go outside, do something with his life, but Soul never answered, only stared blankly at the image of himself, though this image, it wasn't him. Wes had so much in front of him, he was determined and far more superior than Soul in any way. He knew that even if they both looked the same, even though it felt like staring at a mirror, there was no way that Wes would mop around like he was, a disgrace in short words, that's what Soul, no, that's what everyone saw him as.

His body tenses when the sound of his door opening reaches his ears, slowly light begins to seep into the room, he says nothing and sighs. Reluctantly, Soul sits up, stretches and ignores how the sheets cling to his skin in an uncomfortable way, how his eyes seem heavier than usual and his headache is beginning to worsen. His eyes fixate themselves in the entrance where Wes stands, his eyes shine with what seem genuine happiness but his face remains serious, eyebrows furrowed, the two stare at each other. Uncomforting silence reins the room, and it's not the same as when Soul was alone, his brother is in here and has yet to state his business. The seconds tick by, and Soul frowns. Wes's expecting him to speak, he realizes.

"What?," and even though everything in his being told him to not comply to his brother's wishes, his mouth had already opened and the words flew from the tip of his tongue, he flinched, his voice croaky. It was so weird, hearing his own voice after a long time, he thought he might've lost it long ago, his thoughts were his secret heaven, a place where he would talk to himself, and Little Ogre if the demon decided to even show up, at times he pondered if everything that's been going on is actually real, if it's his mind just playing tricks on him, borderline of insanity and what's real, and at this point he couldn't tell the difference between the two. But then he remembers that awful night, the blood, her screaming, it was all so painful to remember.

Sometimes he wished he gained amnesia, anything to forget about that night. Anything to forget why he has a scar going from his collarbone down his chest until his hips.

Wes clears his throat before speaking, mild surprise laced in his voice. "Soul, it's already Saturday. I have the car ready to go, just… get dressed and go downstairs when you're ready." Wes leaves the room for a second before returning, in his hands the clothes Soul's most likely supposed to wear, he makes a face -rather childish of his part- but doesn't say anything when Wes takes one last look at him before closing the door, darkness returning to the room. It gives Soul a sense of familiarity, one that calls out to him to go back to sleep and forget about everything.

His body however, doesn't obey him, and he finds himself walking towards the clothing. In the way turning on the lights and avoiding empty bottles of alcohol thrown around the room. Soul picks up the article and examines it, his face stoic; he remains silent and sets it aside, hanging it on his door before making his way towards the bathroom. His mind is reeling back to what Wes had said. Saturday? What was so especial about the day? It bugged him the entire time he took a shower, dried himself and walked towards the bathroom. His body stopped in front of the mirror, and for the first time in ages he saw himself and the sight only made him feel so much emptier. Obsolete, he hated himself so much. Long gone where any traces of him being a happy child, Soul, he never was happy. One would expect him to be quite content with his way of living, having so much money it was ridiculous. But money wasn't everything to him, in fact, the least of his priorities. Even if he never was happy, the sight before him told such a different story that it was hard to even tell if he was the same eighteen year old from a year ago.

If he in fact, was the same person. His hair, white, spiky, much of a mess right now only tamed by the water that dropped in droplets from it's edges, into his face, the floor, covering his red eyes, tired, long void of emotion that contracted against his pale skin, the one that used to be an almost tanned color. Dark bags under his eyes only helped him look like a dead person, and a part of him cruelly reminded him that he isn't a person. He's a hollow walking shell of the person he used to be, and his mouth, pulls into a sad smile before he grabs his toothbrush and begins to brush his teeth. He takes his time, the smoking had done wonders to his teeth –and not in a good way- sharp as ever, but tinged in a slight yellow tone. He finds it so hard to look positive at things right now, he's slowly rotting away, and he has always been. But now… it was simply ridiculous.

Once done, he steps outside of the bathroom and dries his hair. His mind goes blank and autopilot engages, when he comes back to his senses he's already done and is tying up his tie. Red, contrasts with the black tuxedo, he stares at himself in large mirror that stands in his room. He looks handsome; his thoughts only swirl around how he looks like his old self. A sudden wave of conflicted feelings washes over him, and he wonders, just why, why, Wes picked up this tuxedo instead of his other ones. It only brought memories, and those, Soul wasn't fond of memories. Not in the sightless. His face crunches up and he decides that he's too sick of looking at his reflection. His image hadn't changed one bit, he still looked tired, hopeless, and sick of it all. But dressed up like this, it made him feel, no, it made him look more grown up. Like he had gone through so much and has endured it all, but the sickening truth, the only one he knew, told another story.

Soul stands back, looks at his reflection for a little longer before turning off the lights and grabbing the knob to exit his room, he hesitates. He really doesn't want to leave, but something in his head only makes him want to leave. This nagging feeling at the back of his mind, it screams to go back into bed, fuck Wes, and fuck whatever it was that they were going to do. He couldn't deal with having to face people again, he just wanted to silently drown himself in his misery and bottles of whisky, kill himself slowly by smoking everyday. Anxiety slowly consumed him, and he hated it.

When he had stepped out of the room, not bothering locking it –he knew that sooner or later after he departed with Wes, the maids would come in and clean the room- his eyes strained to look around, the hallway was too lit up. It bothered his eyes, and with a deep breath, he took a step forward, then another. Before he knew it, he was walking down the elegant stairs, his steps resonating against the walls, the marble stairs making no help to quiet down the sound of his shoes. It wouldn't be long for curious eyes to peek quietly at him, he thought. But the young adult simply walked down the stairs, even as he heard the maids running to line up at each end of the steps.

One eye opened and noticed –much to his surprise- that all of the mansion's staff was already there, all bowing down waiting for him. The last step he took and he was already being greeted by the staff, he remained silent and stared forward, the sound of their voices bothering his headache which had diminuend when he had taken a long hot shower, began to slowly creep back into his mind. He wanted to tell them to shut up, but they weren't doing it on purpose. Instead he stopped walking, eyes closed and eyebrows furrowed in slight pain. He raised his hand in a calling manner. The sound of feet walking towards him quickly stopped when a young maid stood by his side, Soul only tilted his head and opened his eyes to give the female a stare, she seemed new, by the way she was suddenly taken back and seemed to be surprised when he stared at her. His eyes remained glued on her, cold and calculating. He noticed he was making her nervous; he wanted to laugh, ask why in his absence someone had contracted such an inexperience fool. But bit back his tongue.

As much as he owned this place, owned the staff, he couldn't be cruel to them. They hadn't done anything against his commands, they obeyed when he asked for more alcohol, cigarettes and the often painkillers he'd down in a single day. It was a matter of time before he took an overdose and died. The silence began to weight the poor female down, he noted that her emerald eyes began to crystallize –His chest hurt when he noticed their color, he was sure he knew someone with eyes like those- ; it took him a minute to realize that she was barely shaking and tears threatened to fall. A part of him felt pity, he was making her nervous. With a small sympatric smile, he spoke.

"Do me a favor and bring me some analgesics." He spoke in a low, demanding tone, the female nodded slowly before scurrying off towards the kitchen, he watched as she disappeared behind the various doors to the kitchen. Soul sighed, turned around to face the staff and noticed that they had all been watching them, he frowned. Unnecessary attention, he didn't need it. Then again, when was the last time he had set foot outside of his bedroom? They're all probably shocked to have seen him after so long. A nagging voice in his head told him to ask a question he was dreading, he could choose to ignore it, but he felt the need to know.

"What month is this?" Soul patiently waited for an answer, and he waited, and when he realized that none had responded. He quirked an eyebrow and inspected each of the staff, they remained quiet, making him feel so self-conscious. Why weren't the say anything? He should've remained quiet, ugh; the headache was starting to kill him again. It was at this point that he realized that maybe he should've remained quiet. Now they would think he was crazy, but spending so much time isolated, it only served as time to dig himself deeper into his little black hole, things such as time didn't matter in his room, his sacred place, a place covered in the familiar smell of alcohol and smoke, this place, his mansion, his house –not a home anymore, he lost his the day his Grandmother died- was foreign to him.

When he shifted on his feet and rearranged his tie in an effort to do something other than stand there, his eyes flickered to the side briefly from where the new maid had disappeared off to, she was taking too long, and he hated this. His mind was screaming to go back to his room. When his eyes landed on one of the servants, she quickly blinked and offered a reply. Slowly, she answered, as if picking with delicacy her words.

"September, Master Evans."

He felt the world crash down on his shoulder when the words left the woman's mouth, he however on the exterior remained calm, stoic face and didn't say anything but nod in acknowledge before turning around, his back facing the servants, and watched as the new maid arrived with the pills and a glass of water. He was aware of it, but his mind, it was somewhere else. Just that simple name, September, it made him feel uneasy, lost, without a sense of direction. Had he really spent three months of pure isolation? Had he really lost so much time? In between his week of insomnia and random outburst which ended up in self harming, he thought that maybe everything would be over by the end of the week. It never did, but never had he imagined that he would've stayed so long cooped up in his room.

What even for? No, he wasn't going to bring back those memories. Soul took a shaky breath, blinked when his name was pronounced and took the glass of water and two pills from the servant, taking the pills; he downed them with a drink of water. He remained unmoving, before grabbing the orange translucent bottle, and downing at least six more pills, he ignored the worried calls of his staff before he gave the now half full container to the maid and set it off towards the entrance. He opened the door, greeted by the setting sun of Death City. His eyes scanned the familiar garden and when his eyes spotted the black limo waiting for him and Wes sitting aside, who upon spotting Soul, patted the seat next to him, Soul gulped. Taking a step outside, his mind was racing. Of course he couldn't have been in there for so long… could he? He didn't realize when he had stepped inside the limo, or when the doors were shut. He wasn't even aware when the limo started to move. He simply stared forward, the world spinning around him.

However, a familiar hand sitting atop his shoulder and a light squeeze snapped him out of it. Soul turned to face Wes who was giving him a worried look, his eyes showed true concern, but he tried to hide it through a smile. Soul remained silent and heard as his bigger brother spoke.

"I'm really glad to see that you didn't bail out this time like you did a week ago."

"That wouldn't be a cool thing to do would it now?"

Soul let out a shaky chuckle, leaning back into the comfortable seats of the limo. In any other occasion, he would've rolled down the window and looked outside. But today he wouldn't. He was too damn scared to see just how much things have changed. After all, the world still kept on moving, time was a thing outside his room, he realized. That alone made him a nervous wreck.

"I hope you're okay, really. Lord Death's holding a dinner party, guess what brothers are going to play tonight?" Wes voice was just filled with this happy tone to it. Of course he would be happy, Soul thought bitterly; He's the skillful one, master at the violin. Soul's only good at playing the piano, and even so, he never got praises like Wes. His music was dark. It has always been. It didn't take a genius to figure out that the one invited to play was Wes, not him, he would never be, and he knew this. His brother just invented an excuse to not have him bail out in mid party.

Soul closed his eyes and faked a smile. "Great, can't wait."

All he wanted right now was to smoke and forget about the world.

I've been feeling like writing some angst for a while,

hopefully I've portrayed Soul correctly as I haven't written for him in a long time.

Plus we're dealing with him being depressed.

Please Rate and Review, critiques are always welcome!