Warnings- SELF HARM, slight gore, angst.

Edward slipped into his tiny one room apartment, sneering at the peeling, faded paint, and the chipped grout between tiles on the dingy floor. The room looked so bleak, so empty. Alphonse had decorated it before he left, and his little touches were the only thing that brightened the fading room. A picture of them together, a framed piece of cloth; the serpents cross on red fabric, recovered from his final red coat, and a little metal horse on a shelf, very similar to the small ones they made as a gift to their mother all those years back. Ed gave an empty smile as he placed his shoes and coat by the creaking door. In this little apartment it was just him and the cockroaches.

Saying he didn't miss Al was a lie, but he was happy his younger brother could finally relax where he belonged. The look on his face when he was with Winry was full of love struck bliss. To dare to take that away was nothing short of selfish.

He trudged to his day bed/couch, not even bothering to change into pajamas. He lay staring at the ceiling, thinking about what had happened that day.

He had woken up around 2 in the afternoon, nursing the small hangover he had. He took a shower, and set out for a walk. He grabbed a small lunch at a cafe, quickly walking on to avoid any social contact. He had found himself in Mustang's office, pondering how he had gotten there. He had no business there, and he couldn't help but think he was a nuisance in the other's presence. He huffed, thinking about that weird face that the Colonel had when he said he wasn't hungry. It looked like disappointment. Was the Colonel disappointed in him? It seemed pretty likely. Besides, he wasn't interested in some pity dinner so he could listen to the Bastard lecture him on his health.

Ed knew he had become nothing more than a lump that takes up space. With few pointless missions and nothing to look forward to, he questioned why anyone even bothered. He noticed recently that he wasn't being sent out as often. He figured Mustang finally realized he amounted to nothing, and that it wasn't worth it any more.

Before realizing it, he ran his hand by the bottom of the couch, looking for the handle. He grabbed the cool hard surface, and brought it to the dwindling light from the lamp outside. The sleek blade reflected the moonlight pouring through, and the small designs that were carved in were revealed. He had stolen the knife from the sin Envy years ago, and subconsciously heard his maniacal laugh every time he cut skin with it.

He sighed and brought the knife to his flesh wrist, observing the cuts that already lay there. He had picked up the habit a few months ago, and found the sweet searing pain to be invigorating. Scars covered his body, from his arms, to his thighs, and his hips, just reminders of the failure he was.

He knew that he could end it any time he liked, but he chose his Father's birthday, for the sole reason of having a plan. Everything in his life beforehand had been a mix of unplanned disasters, there was little he could control anymore. At least he knew he could control this.

It was difficult, knowing you were going to die. It was hard looking at the people around you, knowing that they'll never see you again. He had been in near-death situations, where one false move was the end of you, but he had never planned it. He had always found some sort of reason to live, some way to get out, but this time was different.

He knew it was selfish to think that no one would miss him, or realize he was gone. He knew some would. But they'd get over it. He knew that a month later he would be nothing but an example to the military; a reason not to let in 12 year olds because they jumped the cliff as soon as they reached their goal. He'd be a joke, just a hot-tempered kid that never amounted to anything.

He pulled off his hoodie, revealing crimson welts from only a night before that still shone brightly over various scars, healing slowly. He had already set the date for his demise, and was counting down the hours. It was close, very close.

He placed the blade to his tortured skin, grimacing when it started screaming, crying hot, red tears. He pulled the blade diagonally across the flesh, disrupting the healing wounds. He grinned maniacally, pulling it across roughly 3 times, before dropping the knife on the ground next to him, not even bothering to clean the red sin covering the edge.

On the coffee table by the couch sat a bottle of liquor. Ed sighed and grabbed it, unscrewing the cap and throwing it back, not bothering to clean his wrist. Ah… Alcohol. Ed sighed, relishing the burn in the back of his throat as he slowly drank himself to sleep.

He next woke in the middle of the night, slightly aware of the ringing in his head. He glanced at the wrist hanging off the couch. The blood had flowed in rivers down his palm, drying and leaving scarlet trails. He moved his hand, wincing at the sparking pain that shot up his arm. Sighing, he brought himself to his feet. He got to the small bathroom, and looked at himself in the mirror.

"Pitiful." he said to himself in monotone, glaring at the reflection in the grimy, cracked mirror. The bags under his eyes had only gotten worse, from constant loss of sleep and overworking. His golden hair was greasy and unkempt; spilling out of the braid he forgot to take out. His lips were dry and cracked; giving the appearance he hadn't had water in days. He started the weak shower, pulling a towel out of the closet to his left.

He removed his shirt, refusing to look in the mirror. His eating habits had dwindled, he would rarely eat anything substantial, and when he did, he would throw up till he couldn't breathe. Sometimes on purpose. He could feel the bones extruding from his shoulders, his ribs well-defined, and his collar bones like shelves. He winced and brought the courage to look at himself. His automail suddenly seemed so big and strong on him, too large for his tiny, scarred frame.

"Who would ever want this? Want me?" he thought out loud, still glaring at the skeleton in the looked down, removing the rest of his clothes, then slipping into the scalding shower.

Afterwards he walked back to his couch-bed. He could pull out the mattress, but just didn't have the strength, or reason. He plopped back down, pulling the blanket over his head. It was only Wednesday; he didn't have anything to do until Friday. Of course, Friday was the end.

(A/N) My revisions of this story are sadly a lot more depressing than the original story. Probably since I'm a lot more depressed since I wrote the original story.