It's not enough to save the day

I can't escape my nightmares.

The knife is glistening on the floor, tinted red. My wrist burns, but it doesn't matter. It takes away the pain. I just want it to all go away. All of it. The whole in heart won't heal. It... It's all too much. A tear falls onto my wrist, making it sear with pain. This doesn't change the fact he's gone. Sobs consume me, a flow of blood trickling from the cut. It drips onto my face, and mingles with my tears.

You can't have darkness without light.

"I'm back." John shouts from the door. Finally. He's been at work all day.

"How was it?" I ask, trying to be polite, even though I feel like crying.

"Alright." He chuckles. "I bought milk."

It's a well-known fact that wherever John lives, there never seems to be any milk.

"I'm going out later." I say bluntly.

"Mm?" He mutters.

"I said, I'm going out later."

"Where to?"

"Doesn't matter."

He's been living here about three months. Good friends, now, me and him. We do get the occasional comment, but we brush it off. It means nothing.

I wander back into my study, and pull a pen and paper from my desk. I haven't really written like this in so long; I've always been on the computer, but he deserves more.

I miss you.

It's been hard without you. I've been sad. So sad. So alone. You've left a hole in my heart which refuses to heal.

You can't have an angel without a devil. You can't have darkness without light. You can't have me without you.

And I don't plan on it much longer.

I will see you soon.

Reunited.

I love you, brother. Even if I didn't show it, I loved you through it all.

Goodbye world.

Mary. X

Tears are staining the paper, but I don't mind. I don't think he would either.

Clad in black, by his grave. I know I must not be a pretty sight right now, makeup running. He wouldn't care, really. I feel eyes on my back; I look around, to find nobody there. It's nothing, I whisper to myself. It doesn't matter.

I can see the letter lying by the grave. It will find him, I'm sure. It better find him. I poured my heart and soul into that letter. You would have thought I'd run out of tears by now, but the droplets still stream down my face.

He was an amazing man, the best twin I could hope for. I can see past his sins. He was smart, kind and caring. He was nice. So imaginative, so friendly, so caring. We hadn't talked in years, but I was still comforted by his existence. But... But that comfort is gone now. I am alone on the water of this world, and I don't find it pleasant.

My fingers trace the white and scarlet lines on my left wrist. He made me like this, but I still love him. I will join him soon, and shake hands with him in hell.

"Mary?" John shouts as I walk back into the house. He meets me in the hallway, and sees my tears. He immediately understands. He puts his arms around me, and pulls me into a hug. I cry into his shoulder. I know he feels the same. Poor John, having to deal with me like this. I'm a wreck. A poor, hopeless wreck. It's a wonder how he hasn't had enough and left yet. I pull away, and look at his face. He's been crying too.

He smiles a slight, understanding smile.

"You're boring. You're on the side of the angels."

"I may be on the side of the angels, but don't think for one second that I am one of them."

Two men, locking horns atop a hospital roof. An angel and a devil having their showdown. The final showdown.

Curly, dark chocolate, messy hair. Blue eyes which could see into your head and heart. Sharp razors for cheekbones. Pale skin, like the petals of a white rose. Sherlock Holmes, Consulting Detective.

Black, slick, gelled back hair. Mahogany eyes which could penetrate your soul. Short stubble, bristly like a hairbrush. James Moriarty, Consulting Criminal.

"You're gooood." Utters Jim, and pulls the corners of his mouth into a grin.

The criminal's spindly fingers curl around the trigger of a gun, and pull it from his pocket. The barrel nestles itself in the roof of his mouth. The finger tugs at the slip of metal, and a bullet explodes from then end of the gun.

Boom.

I scream myself awake. The bed's messed up by my movement and moist from sweat. My head aches. My eyes hurt. My body throbs.

John bursts through the door. Poor, caring John. He's tired, I can tell. His eyes look puffy and dark. I look at him with pleading eyes. I need someone here, or the nightmares will find me. He catches on instantly, and walks across the room in five long strides to sit with me.

"Th-thank you..." I murmur.

"No problem." He says.

I fall asleep lying on his arm. The nightmares don't return again that night.

Nobody has visited his grave for days. It just lies there, untouched, unloved, apart for one lonely letter. A letter which deserves more than going unanswered. He decides to reply. He writes it in his cursive script, just like he always does, with a fountain pen and tough paper. He takes his time to think about what to say, the pen hovering on his lips silently. The pen drips, staining the paper slightly, but he knows she won't mind. He's careful about his words, making them kind enough not to hurt her, but that would be hard for him. He doesn't know kind.

He finishes his letter, and seals it with blistering hot, scarlet wax. The seal simply depicts a small magpie on a branch, carrying some stolen treasure. Ribbons flutter from underneath the seal, like butterfly's wings on a breezy day, although... the seal is much less innocent than the beautiful creature.

He strides through the rain to the grave which bears his own name, and looks at it with a chuckle. The letter still sits there, alone. It's been crumpled and stained so many times, by rain and mud and feet alike. It was written with such compassion, such finesse. She poured her heart and soul out into that letter, and yet it gets disregarded so much to get destroyed? Pathetic. He reached down to touch the moist, imperfect and yet amazingly glorious letter. He finds himself smiling a wide grin at her devotion.

He looks up slightly at the stone before him. It was engraved with just his name, nothing else, secluded under the shade of the beautiful willow trees that guard his eternal sleep. His fingers rise to stroke the pitch black of the granite tombstone, and feels tears start to glisten in his eyes. He has felt guilt for the first time in his life, and it is not a feeling he likes. He would want the aching in his heart to go away, but he would have to talk to her first. Now that is something he really doesn't want to do.

He's had enough. He lays the letter down beside his sister's, and turns on his heels to walk away.

The rain continues to pour down behind him.

Dear Mary,

You are wrong to be so devoted. All I ever did was hurt you, and I am sorry for that. I will never hurt you again. Not now I am out of your life. I am so sorry for what I did, what I became. I had no idea it would affect you so much.

Don't hurt yourself because of me. I am not worth it.

Please.

The letters both disintegrate into nothingness in the onslaught of rain and sorrow.

A single, lonely tear drips down his cheek.