A/N: Well what do we have here. An update on a oneshot? I'm kidding. I was so, so, so thrilled by all your responses, I decided to convert this into a series of oneshots. They won't be in chronological order, so be warned. And I'm open to prompts, so let them rain in. -tee hee, rain in- Sorry; inside joke which hopefully will become clear by the end of this series o.O

A/N 2: There will be trigger warnings in this chapter for depression and suicide. If that is not your cup of tea, then stay away. I probably should have warned you lot that when you asked for updates, they weren't going to be fluffy in the least. Check genre again. That being said, a lot of sensitive topics will be dealt with and I will not appreciate comments which are thoughtless. I will deal with those warnings with chapters as they come. Speaking of this chapter alone, this is a topic which is very touchy for me so I ask for you to kindly refrain from any criticism other than the constructive kind. I will not tolerate comments about how unrealistic this chapter was. Such psychological experiences are different for different people. Please, do not criticize unless you are criticizing my writing. Thank you.

Prompt: Sydney contemplates ending it all and writes a letter to Adrian. (ending up to writer).

When they teach you to be an Alchemist, they don't teach you what it feels like to die. Sure, you're taught how to play with chemicals and words, mess with minds and matters. You're taught how to fire a gun or slip into the crowd; how to twist your words to have people believe you and twist their own so that nobody knows you're safeguarding them from a world so evil it could rain blood. When they send you for your first assignment, they teach you to be vigilant. To never trust anybody, neither in daylight nor in darkness. They tell you, Every morning when you wake up, pray to God, thanking him that you are still alive.

But they don't tell you how it feels to wake up each morning wishing you weren't.

She doesn't blame them.

Not really.

Nobody's supposed to learn how it feels like to want to die – nobody's meant to be prepared for that sort of thing. If we were prepared for that agonizing feeling, it wouldn't be so agonizing. And then maybe, we wouldn't feel the need to die at all.

In the earliest days of man, it was considered the ultimate insult to God to commit suicide or glorify death. It meant you were spitting in the face of the greatest gift He could ever give you – life. No wonder they never taught her what it feels like.

But just because they didn't teach her something, doesn't mean she didn't learn. They never taught her how to see vampires as people. They never taught her how to fall in love with one. So it makes sense that if she could do those things, then she could learn to do this too.

Her legs have turned numb, sitting in the same position on the armchair, crossed underneath her, while she's curled up into the seat. There's a throw cushion in her lap, on which there's a writing pad and blunt pencil. A shawl is wrapped around her dainty shoulders. There's no sound in the tiny apartment, save for muffled footsteps in the kitchen. Their old apartment used to be noisier, not far from the Piazza del Campa di Fiori. But they had to move to a quieter place after she woke up, screaming, two nights in a row from the echoing sound of pitter patter over the tarp roofs of the market. Even his arms hadn't been enough to keep the nightmares away that night.

There's another muffled sound from the kitchen and she jumps a bit. He's always making some sound or the other. Loud enough to give some normalcy – to him, to her, to them – but not loud enough to scare her because nothing's really normal – with him, with her, or them.

Her gaze flutters from the cloudy Rome sky and then down to the notepad. She's written down only two words. Dear Adrian, to be precise. She swallows roughly.

"Coffee for you," he says, placing a steaming mug on the table beside her and she looks up, startled. She didn't even hear him come in – further proof that all the noise in the kitchen was all on purpose. She almost smiles. Almost. She gives him a small thankful look instead. He smiles, but she can see his green, green eyes tighten a bit. They always do when she doesn't reply back. She pretends not to notice, as she looks away.

She doesn't blame him.

Not really.

It's not his fault that not a single word has come out of her mouth since the day they found her.

Adrian! Adrian...you found me.

The last sentence she'd spoken. That was seven weeks ago. There had been a moment, back in Dubai – their stop over on the way to Rome – when they'd been at a hotel and she'd watched him talking to a bellhop. Her heart had jumped to her throat and she'd gasped, stumbling into the couch.

What? Sage?

She'd just choked on a lump in her throat for a second or two, before composing herself. She'd stared at him, her eyes wide and filled with tears. No words. But the meaning had been clear: Am I really free? Am I really never going back? Is this a dream?

There's another muffled sound and her eyes come back to focus on the window pane in front of her. He sits on the window seat, looking out and she doesn't know what he's staring at. Something tells her that even if he shows her, she won't see. There's some things which make themselves visible only to artists. Just like how she can't show what she sees either – because there are only some things which make themselves visible to the broken.

Silence finally envelopes them and she picks up the pencil, looking down at the two words. The handwriting is a bit shaky and out of use. But it's nothing he won't understand. The words are floating around in her head, the resolve clear. Nothing transfers to paper without sounding cliché, or worse, desperate. She doesn't want to sound weak. She doesn't want to sound helpless. She just wants him to understand that she wants her freedom – the kind of freedom that this world can't give her. She doesn't want him to think she gave up. She just wants to let go.

Dear Adrian,

I don't really know what to write because somehow, no amount of words in my vocabulary would be enough to explain to you how I feel right now. Okay, that's not true. There are about fifteen thousand words I can come up with if I had the time. Sad. Alone. In Despair. Empty. Hurt. Haunted. Broken. Unrepairable. Tainted. The list goes on. But they don't really describe what I'm feeling, do they? I can paint – metaphorically – a picture of how much everything hurts right now and you wouldn't get it until you were sitting in my place, seeing the things I've seen.

I'm not saying you wouldn't try to understand. I know you'd try your best. You always try your best when it comes to us. But it's not enough. I'm not saying that you're not enough for me.

I'm not enough for you.

The pencil stops moving for a second and she considers crumpling the paper and throwing it out the window. It's pathetic, to be honest. Just like she is, right now, sitting here and writing a goodbye letter to the only person who she's ever really loved and the only person who she knows won't give up on her.

"What are you writing?" he asks. She looks up. She didn't even realize he was staring at her. She doesn't say anything and he doesn't push her. But he's got a hopeful look in his eyes just like he always does whenever he asks her something. Like, maybe, this time she'll have something to say. No words suddenly spill from her lips, although there are millions swarming inside her head. No. She doesn't use her voice anymore. It's been used for so long for screaming that it doesn't really have another purpose anymore.

She shrugs. He turns back to look outside the window. Her pencil starts scratching across the page again.

It's not fair for me to do to you what I'm doing right now. I'm useless. I don't talk, I barely eat, I barely sleep. I can't shower without wanting to scream and I can't drink water on my own because I'm scared I'm going to die choking on it. I can't move around town on my own because I'm some sort of fugitive from the people who brought me up and the ones who happened to make me this mess. I'm not the girl you fell in love with. I don't even recognize myself, I don't understand how you recognize me.

I'm barely me anymore. I'm barely a person. I wake up thinking it's another dream and I'm back there; or sometimes I wake up hoping I'm dead. Because death has got to be better than what I'm living now.

It's not that I want to die. I just don't want to live.

She freezes, once again, as she stares at the words she's written. She reads them over and over and over again until they don't even look like words anymore. I just don't want to live? She asks herself, silently. He's going to think you're some sort of lunatic. He's going to blame himself for not getting you real help. She quickly scratches the last two sentences out.

I want to live, Adrian. The life I used to have, the life we had in Palm Springs. It was dangerous and it was daring and it got me into trouble, but it was a real life. I used to love, I used to hurt, to fight, to think. Now? I don't do any of that. Don't you see that? Don't you see that this person is not Sydney Sage?

Do you want to know how I know I'm not the same anymore? Because I don't remember a time before this. I can't. Everything I can remember, every memory is of pain.

I can't do this to you anymore. It's not fair. How long will you have to take care of me? Six months? A year? Five years? How long till you realize that I'm no longer your partner but just a little girl who needs somebody to scare away the monsters at night?

I love you. I loved you then, and I love you now. But you have no idea how much I don't love myself. I'm an embarrassment, to myself, to my family, to you. You think I haven't noticed the looks people send your way when you walk with me down the street and I'm practically clinging to you because every little thing sets me on edge? The pity they have for you? Since when does Adrian Ivashkov get looked at with pity?

"Will you show me? What you're writing.." he asks and she looks up, pencil stopping once more. For a moment, she's utterly lost. Where is she? Who is he? Who is she? Rome. Italy. He's Adrian. You trust him. He loves you. You're his Sage. Sydney Sage. Right. She nods, but keeps the book clutched tightly so that he gets the message. She won't show him until she's done. He doesn't push.

Her eyes turn down to the paper again. She can't get it right. The last words she'll ever speak to him and she can't get them right. Tears of frustration prickle at her eyelids and she abruptly considers ripping the paper out. Her hand crumples the sheet, but she tells herself to let it slide. She can't help but feel a little helpless now, even though she's determined to not feel that way. How is she supposed to get this right?

I can't seem to get this right. I don't want you to think I was helpless or that I had no other way out or any of that. I want this. I want to do this. I want to stop feeling like this. I'm sorry if that hurts you, but if you really love me then seeing me like this right now must kill you more.

I wish I could explain it in a more profound way. I wish I could flare it up in my aura for you to see. What do you see in my aura, Adrian? Surely enough darkness to cover up the golden. Surely you see why I'm doing this, why I need to do this?

Please don't blame yourself. Please don't. It isn't your fault that I feel like this.

I love you.

But I don't want to do this anymore. I don't really want to be here anymore – not in Rome, not with you, not anywhere.

Love,

Sydney.

Crap. The letter is complete crap but it's all she's got. It's another glaring reminder that she isn't even articulate enough to put her thoughts in a way where they sound sensible. She carefully tears out the sheet and folds it twice into a neat little square, twisting it around in her hands. Adrian, for once, doesn't seem to be paying attention to her movements. She picks up the pencil and scribbles on top of the folded sheet. For you. Read it later. She stands up, walking up to him and tugging on his sleeve. He turns, an arm automatically going around her waist. She lets him pull her close. The folded paper she tucks into his other hand. He starts to open it, but she makes a sudden noise of protest under her breath, reaching out to stop him. Flipping it over, she points out the message.

"Okay, okay," he says, placing it on the window sill before turning to her completely. Her hands tighten on his shoulders. If he's surprised, he doesn't show it. Her eyes trace the lines of his face, memorizing them one last time before she leans in to kiss him. This time, his surprise is evident. His response is slightly tentative and she's alright with this. She doesn't need him to kiss her one last time. She already knows how he feels - she just wants to kiss him. Her mouth moves, not tentatively, but with a purpose. This is the kiss of a woman who hasn't been kissed in long, and a woman who will never be kissed again. She can feel his hold tighten around her and a muffled sob chokes in her airway, clouded by the sound she's making as she kisses him harder.

She pulls back abruptly, her hair falling in her face.

"Uhm, that was -" he starts, but she pulls out of his embrace. The look on his face does not come as a surprise to her. She didn't expect anything else. Her eyes fluttered down to her sleeves before she turned around.

"Sage, wait, you -"

She drowns out his words as she points to the bathroom and walks in the direction. He sighs and shakes his head, nodding after a second as he slumps back into the window seat. She doesn't know if the expression on his face is of defeat or hope. She can't tell. She slips into the bathroom, locking the door slowly so that his vampire hearing doesn't pick it up. The tiles under her feet are cold and her eyes, like always, wander to the shower head. She shudders. Her eyes travel to the mirror hanging on the wall.

The lines on her face are prominent, the dark circles sinking into her sockets. Her cheek bones stand out, making her face look jarring instead of shapely. The golden tattoo glitters there like some sick joke. Her collar bones stand out harshly and she feels ashamed for the time when she wanted to lose weight. And her eyes. Those eyes which shone like liquid gold - are nothing but matte and dead. She feels a sense of quiet peace settle around her, as her fingers slowly open the medicine cabinet. There, right behind the toothpastes and lotions and hair gel and what not, lies the bottle she'd purchased four days ago. It had been surprisingly easy getting her hands on it.

When you're a mute and your neighbors feel sorry for you after hearing you scream night after night, it's easy enough to get them to do favors - it also helps if you've had training in reading and writing foreign languages, Italian included. Guess the Alchemists really were preparing me for this path, she thinks. Her fingers do not shake as she opens the bottle, her eyes mentally counting the pills inside. How many are there? Fifty? Eighty? The prescription says that one would knock her out for seven hours, in twenty minutes. How fast would she fade into oblivion if she took all?

She slowly sits down on the floor, cross legged, letting a handful of the pills fall into her cupped palm.

Her hands reach for the bottle of water she's brought along with her, breaking the seal and taking a gulp. She pops one pill in. Then another. Then another.

Four.

Five.

Six.

She's on the seventh when a sob catches her off guard, wracking through her body. She stops for a second, not understanding. Another shuddering breath leaves her body. Tears sting her eyes. Her hands abandon the bottle, sending it splashing across the floor. She shies away from it, another sob falling from her lips. Her one hand goes to her chest, to calm her racing heart down. The pills fall from her palm, skittering across the bathroom tiles. Her other hand clutches at the wall she was leaning against, as she starts to cry.

Like a fire caught to a tank of gasoline, the crushing despair chases away the numbness inside her, ripping through her with such speed that she finds herself doubling over with sobs. Oh god, oh god, oh god what was she doing? What was she doing?

Suicide.

The one word makes her break down, her harsh cries echoing through the high rails of the bathroom ceiling. She doesn't know why she is suddenly crying; what has made the resolve melt into a startling sense of reality that this was it, she was going to end her life.

There's a sudden knock on the door which confuses her. "Sage? Please, open the door."

The doorknob rattles, and there's a fraction of a second when silence is suspended between them. "Unlock the door. I won't come in, just unlock it."

Why? Why is he here? Why is he - he read it. He read the letter even though she asked him not to. Frustration sparks through her, which gives way to more sobs. Why can't he ever do what he's told? Of course he'd read it early. Relief and irritation clash in painful ways inside her chest as she crawls to the door leaning against it. If she hears carefully enough she can hear his breathing on the other side, feel the fractional tilt of his weight pressing against it.

"Sydney."

Her hand blindly reaches for the knob and twists it. She hears him try the door again and she scuttles away from it, just as it opens. His expression is relaxed, calm, collected - almost playful. Like this is all a joke. Like she's not really doing what they both know she's doing.

"There, that wasn't so bad. I was just -"

Her legs skim the spilled water on the floor and she scrambles away, towards him. His arms go around her without hesitation but she can see the horror unleash in his eyes. His gaze travels over the scattered pills on the floor and he turns to her. She looks down, away, ashamed for some unknown reason. She feels exactly the things she doesn't want to feel: helpless and desperate.

His fingers tug at her chin and she doesn't respond, shying away from him. For once, he doesn't let her.

"Look at me. Did you take any?"

Silence.

"Sage, how many did you take?"

Silence.

"Sydney." Her chin is tilted up and his eyes are so glassy they look beautiful and fragile all at the same time. She can't tell if it's the lighting or tears. "How many did you take?"

Silence.

She feels a flash of warmth travel up her spine and she realizes what he's doing.

"STOP IT!" she screeches, pushing him away, words cracking through the air like shards of ice. Her throat burns from the sudden use of her voice and he looks so startled that he drops his hands. "Stop it."

She drops to her knees, her head shaking as she clutches her torso, unable to stand straight. "You can't fix me. Not this time. Your magic won't fix me this time," she whispers. A dark, irreversible pain moves through her chest like sludge; like a blade slicing straight through her lungs, and she finds herself unable to breathe. She chokes on her unsaid words as she cries, uncaring that he's there to see her fall apart.

Not piece by piece but all at once.

She feels his arms go around her and she doesn't hesitate to curl into his chest, sobs wracking loudly through her ribs. Her chest hurts, her head hurts, everything hurts. She's so tiny that he easily engulfs her in his embrace, which makes her ponder as to how on earth such tiny a human can hold so much pain inside them. It's okay. It's okay. He doesn't say the words but she knows he's going to and she shakes her head.

"It's not okay. It's never going to be okay," she cries, tears spilling from her eyes, down her cheeks and staining his grey button up a dark black. Her fingers reach up to curl into the shirt, as if holding onto him will make her hold onto herself. She doesn't need to.

He's already holding her together, whatever shattered bits of her are left inside. "I d-don't...I don't know why I'm crying. I don't where this is coming from," she mumbles into his chest where she can feel his heart beating faster than normal which is the only thing betraying how unnerving the situation must be for him. Guilt settles in the pool of her stomach, along with the other emotions which seem to suddenly be swirling there. She sniffles for a second, looking up at him.

"My aura must be a mess," she whispers, her voice coming much easier than expected.

"It's crazy but it's still golden. It's still you," he says, and she can't tell if it's a lie or the truth.

"Liar," she says, crying harder. His fingers wipe the tears with a gentleness which makes her cry harder. She falls forward again, her head resting perfectly in the crook of his neck.

"When have I ever lied to you about your aura?"

She has no response to that, mainly because her stomach feels like it's turning in on itself. It takes her a second to realize that it's more than just emotion - it's the pills and water combination coming back up. She moves to the toilet just in time, the powdery remains mixed with bile, coming out of her like acid. His hands are on her hair, but she doesn't really care if it's getting dirty or not. Her fingers clutch at her throat as the last of the few pills she took comes back up. Her abdomen twists like elastic, forcing every bit of foreign substance out. She slumps, wiping her mouth with the back of her hand as Adrian moves to flush.

"Better?" he asks softly, and she can tell from the catch in his voice that this is not easy for him. None of this is easy for him at all. She doesn't apologize. She's not sorry that she tried to remove herself from the picture. She's just sorry she got caught. The realization, that she still very much lacks the will to live, makes a fresh round of sobs overtake her. She caves, her balance stumbling as she feels herself tip to the ground. But she doesn't hit the cold floor. Her head finds it's way to his lap where he holds her, letting her cry her heart out.

The crushing feeling, which suddenly overtook her, oscillates between dissipating and making itself known, leaving her breathless with every tear which slides down her cheeks. She pulls her legs up to her chest, putting her arms around herself as she tries to fade out.

It doesn't take her long to settle back into the sense of nothingness which had enveloped her for the last seven weeks - nothing but the sound of her heart thumping and her lungs breathing. No thoughts, no emotions. No life. Dark spots corner her vision, making her eyelids heavy and she sighs. Her tightened position loosens into one which leaves her sinking deeper and deeper into an unknown pit.

"Is this what it feels like?" she whispers.

"What?"

"Dying. Am I dying?"

There's a moment's silence, before he kisses her temple.

"No, Sage. This is living."

She knows he isn't lying as much as she hopes he is. Living isn't supposed to be this empty. Living isn't supposed to be this hard and hopeless. But he isn't lying. He's never lied to her and even though he could, to give her a moment's peace, he won't.

Because he wants her to fight. She knows this. He is giving her a reason to live, presenting himself before her to remind herself that she's strong enough to fight. And right then and there, she hates him for it.

But she doesn't blame him.

Not really.

-Squints- I don't know why this is so crappy. Like I said, it was hard to write. Review?