Author: Jade M.
Kitsune
Title: L'Asile De Verre
Warnings: Yaoi? Maybe…but it
is shounen ai Maybe lots of angst, depression, cynicism, self-injury,
blood, and bad language,
Pairings: None as of yet…but it will
blossom into a 1+2/2+1
Disclaimer: If I did own Gundam Wing, I
wouldn't be writing fanfics…. I would be plotting evil schemes for
the anime. I don't so, here is a fic…
Note: I haven't really been up to writing these days… The only writing I due is for my overbearing professors that suck the creativity out of me… I guess I'm continuing this as a stress-relieving sort of thing. I don't know if my writing style changed throughout high school and upon entering college… Maybe someone can point that out. Eh… feel free to comment me about how lame I am… Constructive criticism would be nice as well. Maybe some laudatory comments and a cup of much needed coffee will make me happy. How about some dark chocolate? Please!
I tire of this routine…The one where I get those pitying looks and the shake of their heads. I let me eyes flutter close again and turn away from looks of pity. I can't stand this anymore.
It isn't the habit of self-mutilation or suicide that I can't stand its all about how I'm always disappointing them. Worrying the only friends I have… it gets disheartening. I wish that I never came across their paths. All I am is a social inconvenience to them.
I'm the only idiot that can't use the proper spoon or fork during Quatre's dinner parties. The moron that can't tell fine wine from cheap wine. Not that I'd give a crap, to me, alcohol in any form is fine.
Seriously, who fucks up suicide? Didn't I make a cocktail of pills and alcohol lethal enough to take down a mammoth? Maybe its just the devil's luck, he wants me to live on and carry on his forsaken name.
Haven't I killed enough people throughout the war? Why do I have to take another life? I promise… if I had to kill another person, it would be me. The last and only thing I did right in my hellhole life.
"Duo, wake up…" Quatre whispered softly, yet firmly.
He squeezed my hand gently.
I kept my eyes closed… I felt a warm trail running down the side of my face… I wanted to apologize. But at the same time, I wanted to throw shit at him. At both Quatre and Trowa for not letting me die.
Failure. I don't need to repeat it because it's on a continuous loop within my mind. Failure.
I am not fragile, nor do I break easily. Trust me; I've tried to break myself too many times.
I wish you would hit me.
"Fuck no!" Quatre retorted.
I twitched in surprise and fear at his response. I hadn't realized I had said that out loud. Fuck. I had gotten him angry.
"Sorry Q, I didn't do it right… I should have been considerate… Should have done myself off somewhere else… not in the opulent palace of yours." I mumbled.
He gripped my hand with an extreme force I never thought he could exhort. A person of such small, and I daresay, delicate stature, shouldn't have such a grip. I couldn't help but yelp in surprise and pain.
"Q, stop that! That FUCKEN hurts!"
Quatre stood up abruptly and glared down at me, his shoulders heaved in anger. His face contorted with unexplainable rage. The smooth planes of his face twisted almost painfully.
"Duo, shut the fuck up. I can't believe your selfishness. You have the nerve to leave us?"
Angry tears marred his pale cheeks as he continued ranting at me.
"How could you ever think that we would be better off without you!" he yelled.
"I can't believe you, after all that we had been through the war… You would leave your friend that easily. Why would you do such a thing… why?" he begged as he pulled at my hand.
I snorted and gave a quiet response. I was too tired. Tired of breathing, of hurting, of loving, or living.
" 'Cause… I don't deserve to be your friends. No one needs a filthy street rat in their presence. I ooze unworthiness."
Quatre dropped my hand, stood back, and gave me that disappointed expression again. He shook his head and sighed.
"Duo, you need help. I don't think I have the strength to pull you out of this tar pit you threw yourself into."
I was right. See, I'm fucken hopeless. If my friends can't help me… who can?
Don't give me bullshit about a psychologist or psychiatrist. What the hell of a difference does it make? Big deal, someone has a damn PHD … Whatever…
Quatre's right. I need help. I need to find more alcohol, more drugs, a bigger knife… or better yet, a better gun.
I'll do it right this time.
Random and abrupt ending… My brain is fried. Its 3 am… I need sleep.