A/N: Hi hi loves. So I don't know what to say here exactly other than this is a story I've found myself really into writing right now. But it'll have a list of triggers that I'll be posting at the beginning of each chapter so you all know and are aware of before continuing to scroll down. If you do continue to read the story, I really hope you enjoy it as much as I do. Review's fuel me to keep going, so please leave me your feedback! ~S

TRIGGER WARNINGS: Depression, Anxiety, Self Harm, and Attempted Suicide.

Everyone's had his or her bad days. Days where they're a bit more sad than usual, where they've just got absolutely no motivation to get anything done. The idea of lying in bed all day is the only thing they think is great, excellent even. So they can sleep away the sad. Unfortunately, that wasn't the case for Law. Every day for him, was bad. Sometimes they were worse, and when they were, he frequently thought of them as insults to his bad ones. For him today was one of those worse ones. He'd gotten a surprising five hour total of sleep for the past… four or five days. He has no idea, he's so sleep deprived he's got no memory of the date. To him, it feels like it could be a Wednesday, but then again so did yesterday, and the day before that.

He's walking down some street, he really can't be bothered to look through his darkened shades hiding his unbelievably horrible eye bags and look around for a street sign. He's got nowhere to go, he's just walking aimlessly through the city. Maybe he'll stop and get a coffee, a coffee sounds good. Straight black, no sugar, no milk. Sounds like heaven.

Coffee house, café, anything. He's desperate for the bitter taste to awaken his senses a little bit more so he can at least make it home without collapsing on the ground in front of all these people. He's got about six dollars. That's what he can make out with his fingers in his jacket pocket, unless by some miraculous standard one of the bills he's fiddling around with is a ten, or even a twenty. There's absolutely no way, but he's going to pretend at least for now he's got at least more than he's had in a long time. Some asshole blows smoke in his direction and he coughs. Son of a bitch, he thinks. The smell is putrid and fills up his nose in no time, making him sick to his stomach. He hasn't eaten all that much today, or in the past few days in general really, so he doesn't worry much about hurling onto the street. It'll pass, it will. Not before he lets out a few coughs, his throat burning and itching with the scent. He's gone about two months without smoking now, and he's beginning to crave again. He wants to smoke, he needs to smoke, or so his brain says. He's pressing his nails into his sweaty palms, and he can feel himself going clammy.

He's got a headache now, thanks to that asshole. But it will pass, it will. It has to, he thinks. He told himself he'd at least do one thing progressive today, something, anything. Even if it's just walking to the park, watching a dog take a shit that his owner casually disregards. Something to get out of the house he's been cooped up in for days. He remembers that there's nothing left, no food. Maybe he'll go shopping, that'd be productive wouldn't it? He needs his coffee first. His stimulant always came first. And after needlessly walking down a couple blocks, he stumbles upon a Starbucks. Just great, the expensive shit. He wonders if he keeps walking if maybe some other local café that's significantly cheaper will show up, but he's tired. Too tired to keep walking. He pulls the crumpled up bills out of his pocket and to his luck it's a ten. Starbucks it is. He walks in; the smell of fresh coffee beans is so deliciously sweet he could stay there forever. He gets in line, orders his drink and finds himself waiting in a crowd of obnoxious looking people who couldn't be bothered to take a second glance, but still feels like every eye in the café is on him, finding a way through his clothes and leave burn marks on his skin. It's disgusting. He's anxious now, ready to grab his coffee and run as soon as the damned barista yells out his name. Hurry up, hurry up.

Finally a girl calls out his name, smiles at him along with a poor attempt at a wink and hands him his coffee. He tries to smile back but he's pretty sure it comes off as more of an awkward facial expression someone makes when their muscles are cramped up. He passes through people, trying not to mutter anything because he's sure his voice is hoarse. He's thinking of that girls smile and thinks, how long has it been since he's last smiled? Since he's actually enjoyed being out and about in the city, wandering the streets for no particular reason other than simply enjoying the nice weather and getting out of the musty apartment for once?

Too long. He continues to walk down the street thinking maybe he'll stop by a grocery store and pick some stuff up, all the while rather bundled up for mid October. His unwashed hair hidden by his beanie, sweater layered on sweater with a jacket on top, to add. Ripped jeans that also hadn't been washed in… how long? He's got no clue, and he really can't find it in himself to care either. It's become rather normal for him now, like a sort of daily ritual where he wakes up and grabs the dirtiest thing near him. Too tired to shower, too tired to do the laundry. He's got no motivation and he can't remember what it even feels like to have any. It's been that long.

He takes large gulps of his coffee, the satisfying taste on his tongue and the warm liquid going down his throat is enough for him to let out a satisfactory sigh. He checks his watch, only half past ten. And normally his mind would scream at him to take the first bus he sees back home or maybe even run the distance if his poor lungs would let him so he could sleep, but right now, the strangely cold air hitting his face and neck is keeping him wide awake. A part of him can feel the wind going through every pore, hitting his nerves and sending shivers down his spine. But he's not cold, he likes the feeling. Likes feeling alive when he knows he's nothing but a pest on the side of the road who's more than likely to die a pathetic death that no ones going to care for. There's a woman ahead of him, looks like she has her hands full with two babies riding in a large stroller, crying. Shut up, he thinks. His migraine isn't getting any better with those two yelling and screaming, probably just desperate to suck the life out of their mothers breast. How annoying. He keeps walking, cringing when he passes them and one of them lets out a horrid shriek he could have gone without hearing so close, the mother continuing her conversation about what restaurant to eat at tonight on the phone, not paying much mind to her children.

He's annoyed and he sips his coffee like an angry child. He rolls his eyes, to himself mostly, but he's sure other people are watching him. Watching the way he pays such close attention to people and things happening along the street one might even call it creepy. Who cares though? Definitely not him. If he's got anything to care about its how he's going to pay this months rent. His landlord wasn't a bad guy, in fact just the opposite. A man of his word, and much too kind to even take advantage of. Though he already feels like he is, by the way the man lets him live there for free. He still wants to pay up, he hates feeling like a freeloader and the stress only adds to his impending depression that looms over him. He's nothing but a worthless coward, and why anyone would want to spend a second helping him is beyond any scale he can imagine. He's grateful, but doesn't feel like he deserves it. Of course he doesn't.

It's upsetting, usually going out helps him clear his mind and think about things that aren't all that bad in life. Like animals, cats being cute. But he hates animals, so it didn't do much good. He hates a lot of things. People that chew with their mouth open, people that spit while the talk, people that pay no attention to their kids, people. God, a smoke sounds so perfect right now he can practically taste it. He can feel the burn down his throat and it's killing him not to walk into the next convenience store and buy the cheapest pack they've got. Right now quality doesn't matter to him, he just needs the relief, to stop his hands from shaking. He knows his lungs and heart are never going to forgive him if he does, and he at least wants one part of him not to die out before he does. He drinks so much he's almost certain his liver has been poisoned to the point of no return. Still, can't find himself to care. This way he's sure to die quicker, and that sounds great to him.

He's just walking aimlessly now. He's seen six Starbucks', and he deems it unnecessary. His stomach growls at the sight of each one though, and he gets angry at himself. He's not going to eat until he really needs to. Where he feels he'll pass out if he doesn't. Nothing sounds appetizing to him anyway, the thought of food really turning him off if he's honest. He's got not delight, no appetite, no real reason to want to stuff his face with whatever he could conjure up with food he's got. He thinks about it for a bit before changing his mind, remembering it'd been at least two weeks since he'd bought that jug of milk and he was not about to try to remember if anything else was spoiled or not.

Law finds himself walking to towards a grocery store he spots a ways down. A few blocks isn't bad, he'll be fine and then he'll bus home. Sounds like a foolproof plan, one he hasn't had in… months. He's proud of himself a bit, for going out and making it this far. He's actually done something, or well, is about to and feels pretty good. He hasn't been this satisfied with himself in way too long and he misses the feeling. Of being able to get out and do things he's got to do. It isn't much, but it's something and that's all that really matters. He kind of wishes he had someone to tell this to, this revelation he's having right now on his way to buy groceries. He's stopped by the traffic lights though, only a block away from his goal and he can feel his hands shake again, but this time out of an odd excitement. He wonders if anyone can see him shaking through his clothes, probably not but he can't help but feel anxious at the thought.

He unconsciously starts walking across the street, his weak and tired legs carrying him as far as he needed to go, as far as he has to go and he's almost there. He can see the plaza with ten to twenty different stores and he's almost there. His eyes are focused on the goal, but he's sad. He's so sad, and he's so happy, but so terribly sad he just wishes he could drop off the face of the earth that second. His eyes dart to the side when he sees a car coming his way, then back to the traffic light, which has been red the entire time. He doesn't know why he started walking when it wasn't time. No, that's wrong. He knows why. And he's so close, one car coming at him at such a speed he's ready for it, he can feel it coming. He doesn't even want groceries anyway, is what he thinks while he continues walking at a snails pace, the car coming at him way too fast to slow down and not hit him, it'd at least break his leg or give him some internal damage. Maybe break some of his ribs and cause them to puncture his lung, killing him. Though he'd prefer it to be fast and quick, he'll take anything right now. He'll take slow and painful, he's pretty sure he deserves it anyways, so bring it on. Time feels like its slowing down and that it's taking ages for him to get hit, he just wants it all to stop, to all go away. That gross feeling of sadness making his chest tighten every single day for hours on end and that sickening feeling in the pit of his stomach every single time he thinks of how fucked up he is, how pathetic he is, how utterly worthless he is. No one needs him so it's perfect.

He closes his eyes and takes in one deep breath when time seems to catch up with him again and he feels himself colliding with the cold cement, his hands scratching against the pavement and breaking skin. His head hits the ground as well, not as hard as he'd imagined it'd be but it still hurts. He hears people screaming, some women shrieking and some men yelling at others to call an ambulance. He opens his eyes, why can he open his eyes? He should be dead, he should feel pain at least somewhere on his body, maybe even some blood draining from him, but there's nothing. Just a bit of thumping in his head from hitting the floor, and his ass kind of hurts too. He sees this kid, some scared looking teenager looking down at him and he can see his lips moving but he has no idea what's coming out of it. He's shit at reading lips.

"HEY! I SAID HEY! CAN YOU HEAR ME?!"

Law's looking right into his big eyes, terror written all over his face. He's bleeding too, a bit from his head. Law blinks a couple times before nodding at the boy who's shouting at him, not really sure why he's responding. Why is he responding? He should be dead.

"WHAT'S THE BIG IDEA ARE YOU TRYING TO GET YOURSELF KILLED?!" he hears, blaring into his ears like a loud horn.

Yes. That was the intention, but clearly his efforts had been thrown out the window, so to speak. He groans while trying to sit up, pushing the now angry looking teen off him and his vision is a bit spotty. It's pissing him off that he's able to move so freely. Like nothing had happened. He just stares back and the kid who looks like he's waiting for an answer or otherwise seems like he's going to punch him in the face. He just rubs his head and eyes with dirtied hands and notices just how many people have crowded around them. It's making him even more anxious than he's ever felt before, his skin is burning. He can feel the heat rushing to his face and his mind is scrambled all over the place. He's pretty sure his face looks dumbfounded, with maybe a bit of anger.

His hand as if on instinct goes to the back of his head, feeling around for any blood or crack in his skull but just feels a big lump that he knows is going to bother him for the longest time.

"Hello?! Are you a mute or something?! Answer me!" the boy is still yelling and frankly Law wants to punch him in the face to shut him up. And at the same time, wants to ask him a million questions but cant find the backbone to do so. Instead he coughs a couple times and gets up, legs shaky and hears everyone behind him telling him to sit back down and that an ambulance is on the way. God, that's the last thing he wants. For them to slap on some label of him being crazy and throw him into a god forsaken mental institute. He looks at the boy who he was sure now saved his life for some unknown reason before turning back the way he came and walking away, brushing off every arm that tried to hold him back and keep him on site of the almost crash to make sure he was a hundred percent okay. Just by looking at him a doctor would be able to tell he was, in fact, not okay. Not anywhere near a hundred, maybe somewhere down in the deep pit of the negatives. He keeps walking and his breath is shallow, he's frightened of the people shouting behind him. Asking the same thing over and over, 'are you okay?' Fuck no he's not okay. He's not okay; he'll never be okay. He could have died, he should have died, and fucking would have died if that damn kid just minded his own business and let him go like the pathetic weasel he was.

He's still walking, a bit of speed added to his pace and he's still shaking. He's shaking, and panting, gasping for air and he feels like he's about to drop down onto the ground. It's not even noon and he's had one of the worst days he can remember. A lot of his life before the age of twenty two is a blur, he's lost. Both mentally and physically. His body stands on a street he's never fucking heard of before and he's half wondering how the hell he got here, and half clueless to everything around him. He sighs, pulling out his phone that, of course, has a freshly broken screen. Just his luck. This would happen to him, he thinks and he's just so painfully done with the day, whatever it is, and wants to go home. Thankfully his phone still works, the colors are a bit… fucked up but he's still able to search where the hell he is and far from home it is.

It doesn't take him as long as he thought before he's standing at the door of his apartment, struggling to unlock the door with shaky hands and barges in with the intention of taking as many pills he can. He kicks off his boots and throws his jacket to the floor. He doesn't just want to sleep; he wants to fall into an eternal slumber. Forever, and ever and be done with this horrible world he has to call his reality. He's sweating now, the heat from his apartment is sweltering so he pulls off his sweaters and tosses them on the floor of the bathroom. Reality was sickening, he was sickening. He stares at himself in mirror, water running and he hasn't stopped shaking since earlier. Sun is trying to peek its way through the window and he thinks it's mocking him. He's not sure how, it just is. He splashes cold water on his face and it drips down his neck and onto his chest, as well as down his arms, wetting the bandages he's applied earlier. He notices blood has seeped through and he wonders for a split second if it'd gotten on the inside of his sweater sleeve. It'd be a bitch to wash out. He's breathing so heavily he feels like his lungs are about to give out and pop right then and there. He fails to notice that he's started crying, his tears blending in with the water dripping down his face.

He strips off the rest of his clothes, and hops in the shower. He rips off the bandages and winces at the pain of the blistering hot water hitting his fresh wounds. And he stands there, water hitting the back of his neck, his head held down eyeing the dried blood washing off the cuts he'd inflicted on himself during the middle of the night and he's crying again. He's crying so hard his mind is tearing itself apart. He feels so helpless. Loneliness was his worst enemy. Every friend he's had left him, saying he was just too much to deal with and that they were better off not having to worry every second of every day whether or not he was still alive. He couldn't help that he was like this, what he would give, what he would do if he could change it.

"Okay so I want you to relax-"

"I am relaxed." He interrupts the woman who sits in front of him cross-legged, notebook in hand and pen ready to write away how crazy she thinks he is. Here we go again, he thinks to himself.

"Law, you're very tense. It doesn't take a psychiatrist to see that."

"Well this is my relaxed, so if that's a problem then I'll leave."

"Do you feel relaxed?"

"No."

"Why is that?"

"Psychiatrists are crap, to me at least. Don't I just sit here, spill my "feelings", and get some meds then leave? That's it. I don't actually get better."

"You have to want to get better, I can't do it all on my own. I'm not a miracle worker, Law." She tells him, smiling at him like it's some fucking joke or something and he clenches his fists and rolls his eyes.

"Do I have to get better? I mean, I could die and just get it all over with." He asks her, awkwardly really. He didn't mean to, he knows she cant give him a definite answer and will probably jot that down as further proof he should be sent away to some crazy house.

"Is that how you feel?"

"That I want to die, yeah. Beats sitting in this room talking about feelings, and sure as hell beats going back home to just be kept awake all night by shitty memories."

"Your family is still keeping you up at night?"

"Mmm, yeah. I'm pretty sure my sister told me to die last night too, it was kind of a weird experience."

"You're pretty sure?"

"I don't know- I closed my eyes for a couple seconds I think and she was just there listing off these reasons I should die." He says, handing her the paper that's been scribbled on in the middle of the night with no light to see what he'd written. He'd just done as the woman asked of him and didn't reread it in the morning.

"And you say you can't trust anyone?"

"Everyone I trusted turned on me, so no. I can't." He mumbles while twiddling his thumbs, looking straight at the woman who called herself a psychiatrist.

"How do you feel about that?" she asks, how does he feel, pathetic really. Like he's not worth it, but he doesn't say so.

"About them turning on me?"

"Yes."

"It infuriates me. But a part of me understands, I wouldn't want to be friends with me either." He admits, it's true and he has no reason to lie to the woman.

"But it does anger you, why is that?"

"I don't know. Because I expected them to care. They called themselves my friends and they left me when it got too hard for them. They… had no regard for me. And how I felt."

"I see-"

"And the… fucking hilarious part of it all was, when they'd need someone you know, they'd come to me, They'd ask me some bullshit questions about love and one girl asked me why her boyfriend didn't love her. How the fuck should I know? But I tried to talk her through it anyway. I on the other hand would ask a simple question; just one fucking question and I'd get some pathetic reply they probably thought up while taking a fucking shit." He spits out rather quickly, more like a ramble, he doesn't mean to be vulgar but he can't let it out any other way. He notices her nod and writes some stuff down, and then she looks back up at him.

"Have you made any friends after all this happened?"

"No. I'm pretty sure they'll all use me, in whatever way is convenient for them. It's terrifying." He adds, whispering the last part.

"You trust me though, you must since you're telling me all this."

"I don't really have a choice do I? Sitting here spitting all this crap out makes me feel like I'm going to break into pieces in this expensive ass chair. It's suffocating."

"You have a choice. You're not being forced to say anything. I won't make you say anything you're too uncomfortable with answering." She tells him honestly and kindly, not trying to force him to open up and he notes that down in his mind.

"Then we'd just be sitting here staring at each other for an hour." He tells her, letting out a little bit of a laugh that's all too emotionless and she catches that, replying to it with a kind of sad smile and he's grossed out.

He's sitting on the bathroom floor, soaking wet with a towel wrapped around his waist and he's still crying. He's picking at the softened scabs forming on his wrists and he's choking on his sobs. He looks over to the mirror cabinet, he's got all sorts of crap in there. Crap which if he took enough of, he could end all this. He looks back down at his wrists that have started bleeding again, staining the white towel he's got on and he just stares down.

He feels hopeless. All of this is hopeless. He stands up and rummages through the closet next to him, taking out the first aid kid and rewrapping bandages around his wrists with clammy, shaky, shriveled up hands. He walks towards his bedroom and somehow manages to get himself dressed, at least below the waist and throws himself onto the bed, staring up at the ceiling while his lip quivers at the bland looking walls above him. He feels trapped, in this inescapable hold of sadness that's bound him to the ground, and hung a massive storm cloud over his head. No matter how far he goes, he just can't shake it off. No matter what he does, he can't get away.

"Fuck, fuck fuck fuck!" he curses out loud, to no one but himself. "God go awaaaaaay." he says, pressing his palms to his temples in an attempt to squeeze out the thudding going on inside his head. He contemplates getting back up to grab the first bottle of pills that his fingers come in contact with and swallow its contents whole, but he's got no energy. His limbs are weak and limp like a man who's been starved for days. Which, he had been. His stomach grumbled loudly alerting him he was in fact, hungry as fuck, but still couldn't get up. He just lay in bed, toes curling into the duvet and squeezed his eyes shut. All his efforts were getting him nowhere, he pulled the covers over his head and squeezed his eyes shut once more, praying somehow he'd fall asleep and wouldn't be woken up by crummy nightmares of his dead family or by the neighbors annoying as fuck dog who seemed to have a sensor for whenever he'd fall asleep.

He tosses and turns. He's so tired but his mind won't let him sleep. It keeps him up, shouting putdowns and insults at him, pulling him further and further down the pit of no return and he's already so far gone he doesn't know how much further he can be dragged down.

You're useless. You can't even manage to keep one friend, how pathetic.

No one loves you, everyone's better off.

There's not a single person in the world who would care if you died.

Die. Die. Die. Die. Die.

He's under the covers and he feels like someone is above him, strangling him underneath them and he's losing all his air, oxygen escaping his lungs and his throat is so tight he can't take any in. The task of breathing has never felt so difficult before and he's tearing up, the covers soon dampened by the drops leaving his eyes and he abruptly sits up panting and gasping for air. He grabs hold of his own neck, not tightly but enough to reassure himself no one was there trying to kill him. He plops back down, a sting of pain rushing down the back of his head and spine when his head hits the pillows harder than he'd planned.

"How often do you find yourself wanting to plan or proceed with committing suicide?"

"Too often, I think." He admits while pinching the skin on his left hand, watching her pen move across the paper.

"Hmm… Why do you feel so eager to die?" she asks, and Law's not sure if he should answer honestly or just ask a question back. Words seem to spill off his lips without his consent, there's no holding back.

"I don't have anything to live for. It's just going to get worse from here, might as well put a stop to it before it does, I don't want to have to deal with it." He's all too scared of

"It'll only get worse if you don't do something to change it."

"What the hell am I supposed to do?" he asks her, a bit enraged now and frustrated he can't find the answer for himself.

"What do you want to do?" she asks back, and he's got only one simple answer for her.

"Die." He repeats back to her strongly, and stares at her with a sort of malicious intent only meant for himself but he knows she can read his eyes.

"I mean what do you really want to do Law? There must be something."

"Get a good nights sleep." He tells her, if anything that's a start, right?

"Is the medication I prescribed not working?" she asks and he almost laughs.

"It gets me maybe four hours of sleep, on a good day. I wake up with a gross metallic taste in my mouth though, like there's blood in my mouth all the time when there isn't." It's gross, like someone punched him in the face and he'd bit down on his cheeks and they constantly bled because of it.

"Well that is a side effect, but only four hours is quite low. For most people it should give you a proper eight hour sleep." She informs him and he scoffs before going back to pinch his skin even harder.

"I guess I'm just not like most people then." He replies curtly and there's a bit of a silence that dawns over the two of them as she scribbles onto her notepad and Law finds himself watching the pattern of the birds flying out the window and following them with his eyes. It's calming.

He finds himself sitting on the couch, eating a bag of potato chips and flipping through channels on the TV, hoping maybe there's something mildly interesting on.

He's wrong, there's absolutely nothing of interest on during the middle of the day but shitty talk shows and cooking shows that make him hungry and wish he had a gourmet lunch instead of a lame bag of Lays.

He's still flipping through channels with one hand, eating chips with the other when a commercial with a family that's much too similar to his own comes on and he feels his stomach drop. His eyes widen and he can feel sweat dripping down his neck as he pictures the young daughter and her mother as his own, he panics. Shouting curses at them and at himself for thinking of a harmless family pool commercial as his own. He turns the TV off quickly and lets the remote drop to the floor. Unfolding his legs and leaning over. He feels like he's going to puke and his legs are shaky, he's not really sure if he could make it to the kitchen sink let alone the toilet. He slaps one hand over his mouth and runs to the bathroom where he hurls out nothing but water and chips, the disgusting sound of himself hurling making him even more sick and he's breaking out into cold sweat as he continues to throw up.

When he's done he flushes it down and sitting in the same place he was in not too long ago. It's all like déjà vu to him and he's so tired of it. The same thing over and over, it's boring, literally sickening and he's just so tired.

He sits with his arms hanging off his neck and his head held down looking at the tiled floor. He's all too empty inside, all of him. There's nothing left but sadness and he knows that. His mother, father, sister, friends, all of them were gone and he had no one but himself and the cold lonesome enemy known as his depression siting next to him patting his shoulder, almost pulling him down into the ground. He manages to stand up and turn the tap, rinsing out his mouth trying to get the taste out. He brushes his teeth, hard enough to make his gums bleed and spits, toothpaste mixed with his blood and that disgusting metallic taste is real this time, finding it's way onto every taste bud he has. He brushes harder and spits again, then cups some water in his hands to rinse out the rest of the blood and splashes some on his face again, wiping off the cold sweat. His fingers trace over his teeth, the wet feeling he knows isn't water and he looks down at them, rinsing them hard with water and soap before drying them off on his pants. He refuses to look at himself in the mirror; he knows he'll only be disappointed. Walking back to his bedroom, he stands and looks at the messy sheets on his bed that'd crumpled up and been undone earlier and decides maybe he'll try to sleep on the couch instead.