A/N: This is one of the more depressing things I've written, so don't look here for happy fluffy shiny things. It will be a oneshot.

Rating: T (PG-13) for themes.

Disclaimer: I don't own emotion—I rent. I also don't own that line, RENT or the characters I am going to be using. RIP Jonathan Larson. You are missed.

Summary: A RENT character ponders suicide. Angsty and bitter.

And now, the fic.

Ripping Away

I stood in front of the mirror, hating what I saw. I put a hand up to my reflection, traced the image of my face. Then I withdrew my hand, letting it fall back to my side.

I picked up the razor from the bathroom counter. I toyed with it. The light caught it, and it glinted so invitingly. It won't be so hard, will it? it said. Just two little slits would be enough. It might not even hurt as much as you do to live.

That's true enough, I wanted to tell it. But I'd feel so stupid talking to an inanimate object. It had seemed harder to go on lately. Feeling so consumed, knowing I wasn't the only one, but never quite feeling as connected. Never quite feeling like I'd ever been part of the family.

There'd definitely been times I'd considered doing what I might be about to do. I'd never quite been sure I could actually get the courage to do it, or to put everyone through it. Now I imagined their faces when they found me. What they'd look like. They'd be horrified, I know, if they found me coated in my own blood. But they're all going to die anyway, why should they care?

I imagined them as I saw them. All of them had their share of baggage. Love was hard on all of us. I thought of my own love now. A love I knew, one way or the other, I'd lose, soon. But somehow I felt a little cold when I thought of it that way. I'd lost my love a long time ago. There'd been some sort of rift between us; I don't know how it happened. Whatever the reason, I felt ignored now. Like I wasn't being paid attention to. I'd always enjoyed attention, but when it came to the kind of love I'd never known before this, attention was an addiction. But I wasn't as much part of the circle as the others were.

Well, maybe it was time to officially take myself out of the circle.

Almost in a trance, I held up that beautiful razor. The light off its blades hypnotized me. Not sure what I was doing, I ran it gently across the top of my arm. Hairs came off in it; the job a razor was technically intended to do. I remembered the cut I'd made three weeks ago, although not on my arm; why would I shave my arm? I'd been shaving as normal, but I'd been a little too frustrated. I'd pulled the razor across my skin too hard, and my skin had come with it. Blood had welled up.

The odd thing was, as my flesh was being ripped off, I'd felt…excited. A feeling I couldn't shake; that only grew when the blood began to pour out of the cut. I hadn't been able to stop thinking about it, although I couldn't have brought myself to cut on purpose, even to get that high back.

Today was different. Today I'd get the ultimate high, and end my pain, my boredom with life.

Slowly, I turned my arm over. The blue veins in my wrist stuck out more than normal; I'd gotten so thin lately, but nobody'd bothered to notice that either. I knew that the razor could cut it open, and that my own heartbeat, eager to please, would drive the blood out of my body…

Poised to make the cut, my hand trembling only a little, I brought the razor to my skin.

I couldn't make the cut, though. I had been about to. But then I heard Roger calling to me from the next room, and knew I couldn't.

"Mimi, come on! Do you want us to leave without you?"

Yes, Roger. I want you to leave without me. I certainly want to leave without you.