Ceiling Fan
Random, very random, I don't have a ceiling fan, I think Mustang has one in his office.
Roy Mustang's mind felt incredibly numb as he sat limply in his chair, his head resting against the back of the chair. The armrests were the only thing keeping him from sliding out of the chair and into a heap on the floor. He blinked a few times, his mouth slightly ajar watching the ceiling fan which spun lazily high above his head with mild interest.
He could hear the pitter patter of the rain against the giant windows that lined his office. He hated the rain; it always put him in a bad mood. And as Hawkeye, his adjutant pointed out to him not long ago, he was useless in the rain. Useless, reality bites. The words stung, useless. He didn't particularly like being useless.
A thin light filtered through the rain and spilled onto his desk and into his office. The walls were an odd damp grey color, as if it was soaking wet. The room was a watercolor painted only in grey and black. He yawned.
Maybe the job was finally getting to him. Day after day of sitting here, mountains of paper work on his desk, the Fullmetal kid to deal with on occasion and the fragmented, nagging memory that never disappear. Tossed and shredded in the blender that was his mind, the end result was the same one can expect from a sardine, banana, raw egg yolk and strawberry health drink.
But what was he to do? He had a goal to reach, a country to save and the Fuehrer to become, a life to live. He ought to expect more bumps in the roads than boredom and mind numbing daily routine on a rainy afternoon. And somehow the finish lined looked farther away than it ever did. What has he been doing these past few years? He stared at the ceiling fan whose answer was always the same, a low swap as the blades swung. True, he has been using Fullmetal and his talent to move himself up the ladder. But he has he moved? Has he ever moved?
He closed his eyes and sighed. For a brief moment he a mass of red that didn't seem to stop growing, almost like a balloon that doesn't pop. His eyes fluttered open, slightly disturbed and confused at the image. Maybe he's finally lost it. Maybe he just couldn't handle it anymore. He's been here before. No options, no ways out, it was either to keep going or to stop.
A curious memory freed itself from its chains and flooded his mind. The doctors that lay in a pool of blood, the feeling of guilt and horror, death. He's been here before, a gun in his hand, ready to pull the trigger and blow his brains out. Take the easy way out, free himself for all these burdens. Will he finally be free of guilt if he just killed himself? Will he ever forgive himself for what he's done? Once again the solemn answer of the ceiling fan was a swap.
Does he have any reason to live? Yes, was the answer yes? Will he be able to make it? To finish the race? What does he have to live for? Look forward to? A while ago the answer would have been nothing, but now, the answer was her smile. He didn't know how or when or anything expect that he did.
And swap went the ceiling fan.