So, this is something I began writing quite some time ago. I wrote this chapter and posted it a while back, but then I removed it when i realized I wanted to write a second chapter for it.

This is my first work for LiS. I have no experience writing these characters and it shows pretty clearly here.

I wanted to write a work that would give a specific character proper justification to change a big decision made by another. Hence, we have this short two chapter work.

I have nothing else to say. To those few, enjoy.


Please, Blame Me


"Everything is fucked up. Nothing I have ever done has saved anyone. All I do is delay the inevitable."

The mumbling brunette released a sigh into the chilled night air. Her breath instantly turned to mist and drifted into the darkness. She nearly sighed again, but brought the butt of her cigarette to her lips on the inhale. The smoke burned her throat on the way down and caused a scorching pain to erupt in her chest as the smolders of her cigarette deposited more soot into her lungs. She held her breath, waiting for the screaming pain that told her to breath became unbearable, before releasing the smoke that poisoned her core. The smoke came out much like her sigh, only a slight shade darker, appearing as grey rather than the misty white of her breath.

She had always hated the scent of smoke. The pungent odor that imbeds itself in every fabric of clothing it came in contact with. The grey poison would displace all of the clear air in the area, forcing you into a world dimmed by that sickening smoky haze. But this burning, hazy hell is the closest she can get to her.

The smell of smoke had been her perfume. Never once going about the day without 'medicating' first. The brunette wished she never smoked, because now she wouldn't be forced to suck down the grey poison in a desperate attempt to feel even one step closer to her.

"Funny thing is, every puff really does bring me closer to you …"

The brunette released an airy chuckle when the irony of her newfound habits caught up with her. The grin slid from her face when she realized that going down that route would take far longer than she willing to wait. She felt her free hand slip into her pocket for the fifth time in the last ten minutes to double check that it was still there. As soon as her frigid hand clutched around the object, she released it. She took one last puff from her poison stick and tossed it onto the ground, before stomping it out.

The brunette slowly made her way back to the structure standing erect behind her. The building is in shambles; the front door hangs on a single hinge. Nearly all of the windows are broken, those that aren't are boarded up with plywood. The paint is a faded blue, and cracking nearly everywhere. She used her foot to kick the door in, just the sight of this house made her blood boil. While she took her anger out on the structurally questionable building, she would much rather direct all of her anger and frustration at herself. She nearly pulled the object from her pocket and did the deed in the entryway, but she stopped herself. She wanted to be as close to her when she did it.

Looking around the once lively home, the brunette couldn't help but be reminded of the past. A smile nearly snuck onto her face before it fell away at the site of the vase of dead flowers that sat on a nearby table. On the hardwood next to it lay a newspaper. The headline read "Grieving Parents Die on the Anniversary of their Daughter's Death."

The brunette must have read that article countless times. The woman in the news article, who she saw as a second mother, had been drinking herself into oblivion on her daughter's grave. Her husband had to dragged her to the car when it was getting late. They never arrived home. The man and the woman got into an argument over their dead daughter, and the husband, who was driving, ran a red light. They were blindsided by a semi. The woman died instantly, and the husband died that night in the emergency department.

The brunette remembers the funeral. Both parents were buried next to their daughter. It was that day that the brunette smoked her first cigarette. She needed to forget and she wanted to smell the smoke that she had always associated with her. The brunette's hands began shaking, the habitual crave to smoke had begun to claim her attention, but she willed her arm to remain where it was, rather than allowing it to pull out another cigarette.

The brunette finally reached her destination after climbing the rotting stairs and walking through the door-less room on the top floor. Posters littered the walls, each proclaiming their independence and the rebellious nature of their late owner. The brunette trudged over to the bed that sat against the far wall, on her way she passed by her desk. On it laid an open photo album. Pictures of the brunette and her best friend as children could be seen on her way to the bed. She wanted to look at those pictures and get lost in her memories from a happier time, but she knew if she did she would struggle to do what she must.

The moon shone brightly outside, beams of its light flowed through the window next to the bed. The torn and tattered American flag that draped over the window caught the light and cast the room with a faint pink light. The brunette instantly remembered a different life, a different past. One where she woke up in her arms, with the both of them bathing in that same pink light, only the light was warm and comforting. She remembers not wanting to rise from her spot.

But the hollow echo of a gunshot rips her from her happy memory. She feels the cool tile beneath her once more. She hears the slue of curses and panicked rambling coming from the owner of the gun, she hers the subtle noise of a gushing liquid as it seeps onto the dirty bathroom floor. The brunette's hands ball into fists so tight, her nails dig into the flesh. Only when her palms are slick with blood does she wake from that nightmare. She looks down at her now bleeding hands, wondering if she should search for a first aid kit, but she waves off the idea.

With that awful memory still fresh in her mind, the brunette flops down onto the bed. She pulls the object from her pocket out and positions herself on the left side of the bed, facing the empty spot on the right side. She nuzzles into the empty pillow next to hers, desperate to find that same smoky smell she missed so dearly, she feels tears cascading down her face when she can't.

Abandoning her futile attempts, the brunette flips over so she is staring up at the ceiling. The object from her pocket is firmly grasped in her left hand. She takes several deep breaths before bringing it up to the wrist of her right arm. The object slices through her skin with relative ease, opening a long slit up the length of her forearm. Before she loses all strength in her now bleeding hand, she switches the object to her right and repeats the process on her left arm. The object falls to the ground, its bloodied edge glistens in the moonlight.

The brunette feels her life spilling from her arms. The tattoo on her right arm, her tattoo, is now stained with blood. The brunette doesn't even feel the throb of pain that shoots up her arms, she has already lost too much blood. Accepting her self-inflicted fate, she closes her eyes to picture her beloved. She is standing before her, arms outstretched, waiting for a hug. A head of azure locks sways in the soft breeze. The brunette can practically feel the warmth radiating off of her skin, as if she were really there.

In the last of her functioning mind, she swears she hears someone screaming her name. When she recognizes the voice at last a single word tumbles from her lips, carried by her final breath.

"Chloe."


End of Chapter 1