Lover's Fool

Chapter 2. No Meaning

Disclaimer; I do not own gravitation, but this story belongs to me. Here that! Though, maybe I could trade my brother for one of the characters. Anyone would do!

Warnings: death fic, cutting, Shuichi angst.

please review when finished. if i get five reviews i'll post the third chapter. thank you very much!.

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As I think now, something that the people who knew me best would point and laugh at. The very thought of me, a baka who is barely able to walk down the street without an accident, let alone be able to process a simple coherent thought. Still, I wonder, why we are here, placed on this mundane plane of existence? Does this abysmal life that we all seem to strive to live hold any real value or sense of purpose?

Or are we here simply as a cruel farce for the greater gods that rest above to watch and ridicule. To watch ours victories that we strive so hard for in a feeble attempt for greatness and belonging, then watch in amusement as we crash and burn as we fall like I have done now.

I suppose when I think about it now, that it is a universal question. Something asked and pondered upon from the start of time and probably will be till the end. Knowing very well the consequences and events that will ensure once humanity faces its apocalyptic demise.

Hn, hai this truly is a cause to laugh about, that I would think such thoughts as these. These things, that are obliviously and truly beyond my level of learning. Me who has been called stupid, the village idiot, and child that should run to his mother. Me, a person that never takes time in planning ahead or advising his actions before doing them. Speaking whatever pops into my head at any given time or place, running around all over, and not caring about the responsibilities that I hold. Yes laughable that now I'm actually thinking, and now find myself seated in front of a near empty bottle of alcohol. Not knowing how long I've been in front of it or how that bottle seemed to go so fast.

Somehow, and it is beyond me how, another question manages to enter its way through my mind. As I, a masochist to the end, this time settling for alcohol as my new lover, grab the bottle, and poured myself another glass. It's warm, but I don't care, that just means it will infiltrate my frail, bodily system and help condemn me from the world that much quicker.

It had a bitter taste, and I could feel it burning all the way down my throat and settling in the pool of my stomach as I lifted the glass to my lips. The stuff, I had long forgotten the name, was already taking affect as I grabbed another shot and again gulped it down. The feeling of fabricated calmness and nothingness began to take me over. Though it wasn't enough, I needed more, and my hand lazily went for yet again another shot. I had lost count how many I had had. By now it seemed so routine, what was the point in questioning. It did however make me think of how my routine had changed over the past few months.

The first couple of days after Yuki had thrown me out with the trash, I had tried to get back on track with my life, to pretend I was okay, and the pain that my vindictive lover had inflicted upon me wasn't slowly killing me from the inside out. However, we all know how that went don't we?

I cried till K, with his maniac personality, nearly succeeded with his death threats upon each and every one of us and pulled the trigger. I moped around all day like I possessed no life in my body and that I was nothing more than one of the bums that lived under the bridge. This caused Fujisaki to threaten once again to quit and take his musical talents else where. I succeeded in making Sakano so stressed and stir-crazy that he spun around like a mini tornado and jumped out the window. This time on the second floor, but the most depressing was Hiro.

At first he played the best friend act, being tolerant to my violent mood swings, letting me cry on his shoulder, whisper comforting words to me. He took me out every night to bars and our favorite cabarets in hopes of retrieving me from my shell. He even tried to get me to go on dates. But I didn't what it, I just couldn't do. After awhile he stopped, he turned spiteful, and cold. He took note of every little thing I did. My lack of movement or action, my whimpers, and my tears that seemed to always and never stop. The very fact that I constantly kept faith in Yuki. Hiro in turn became judgmental and mocked me every time he saw my actions, and then one day just like Yuki did three weeks before, he threw me out of his apartment as well.

But you can't really blame him; he has his own life to lead and doesn't need to be distracted with someone else's. I do believe recalling that he was having troubles with his relationship with Ayaka or something. I didn't care though, Hiro didn't know it but he and Yuki had taught me something. I was slowly changing, I was becoming cold, and uncaring just like they had been to me.

I realized that things in life weren't always rainbows and butterflies, that it wasn't always black and white. That the line of grey is a lot more messier and darker than you think. I learned this the hard way. I had had my wake up call. I was no longer the caring loving type. I stumbled through my days just as I do now, reckless, and detached. Going home exhausted from places that became a blur to me when I tried to extract them from my memory, and heading in to work at any given time I chose fit to meet my waking hours.

My band mates and bosses took note of this and sensed that they may have made a mistake by yelling, but they didn't try to correct it. Instead they choose to further hassle and criticize me. At nights I went to dance clubs and bars, those that Hiro had never taken me to and probably never would considering their reputation for "entertainment." Drowning myself in alcohol of various assortments and one-stands is how I would unwind.

The music would blare, droning into me, and mixed with that sinful drink I would lose it all. I'd give in to my vertigo. I didn't care about anything or feel for that matter. It all seemed so surreal in my mind, a bliss that I knew was never truly there. I wouldn't notice a thing while under its spell, like the women that would crawl around me like snakes and latch onto me. Depending on the place some would be looking for work, others simply a "good time."

I'd wake up in strange places, sometimes alone some times not. It was after one of my nightly rendezvous that I "found" the dilapidated, rat hole that I now occupy. I truly wouldn't call it an apartment, considering it was a three story house that someone had abandoned twenty years ago. It wasn't hard to guess why. No lock was on the door from when the cops had broken it down, that or it had rusted away. The stairs were about ready to collapse and when it rained it poured. Leaking through every crack, flowing down the walls, and the power had to be turned off. To turn on one thing in this house meant the light went out in another room. The person lived there, if that was even possible, was a real live-in or maybe agoraphobic that decided to save everything sense he couldn't leave.

There were piles of old newspapers from 1975, porno's, mad TV articles, magazines from thirty years ago, and other collected junk that had accumulated over time and was scattered throughout the house and packed to the ceiling high. I found an old bike in mess and spent my time riding it around the second floor. I don't know why I decided to call it my apartment. I guess in the end I did to make it sound nicer. To give it the illusion that it was something that it wasn't. That it wasn't just an empty broken shell of what it used to be. That by giving it a name apartment it didn't appear lonely.

But the house in some small way appealed to me, it was like a mirror image of how I now was. Alone and deserted. Ready to fall with the slightest push. It was perfect. I never brought anyone by or told them where I lived, still don't. If they found out they'd probably take me away. I thought of telling Hiro, then I remembered what terms we were on. He would probably only criticize me more for my sudden change in life style. Pity though, we could have had fun. Rummaging through the junk, riding on the bike till one of us fell. We had talked about living like morons who didn't do anything when we were younger, know I was.

I still went into work and produced those scribbles I call my lyrics. They were no longer cherry and big on the possession of love and devotion. Instead they turned to ones of hate and death, darkness and fury, sorrow and despair. I think my fans took to the change rather well, calling me a rebel and revolutionary of our time.

I still made my appearances on stage, putting on a false smile for them all to see. The leeches, but you got to give the crowd what they want. It sickens me what I do just to sell a few records. My clothing's changed to satisfy my mood. I now chose to wear more skimpier apparel but less color. Switching to black and blood reds, leather is now my fetish. Appeasing to my eyes and body; but this job isn't satisfying anymore. So I picked up a night one as a waiter/performer at a cabaret.

I know they noticed it all and their shouting and rude side remarks don't change a thing. I have become cold to them like they have to me. I cry less now as each day passes, if they even do. I have seemed to lost count, time seems almost to stands still. I'm frozen. As for the pain that my lover caused me, I can't say it's gone but I found other ways to suppress it.

I have found that this little interlude has made my throat dry even though I hadn't been talking. I reach for my bottle again and suddenly find that somehow while I was lost in my own delusion induced state, I had emptied it. My eyes stare at the label, memorizing every detail as I hold it in my hands. The way the empty glass container looks so hollow. My throat is feeling so dry I can hardly stand it. It's getting hard to breath. I don't want to feel like that bottle. An empty shell, hollow, ….unfulfilled.

Anger I had let build up deep down inside over the past four months slowly started to rise from within. I can feel it, eating at me, growing like an unwanted parasite; burning its way through my essences' and core. It's all too much and I snap throwing that shell against the wall; watching it brake into jagged pieces. I love the sound that it produces and I jump up, making the room spin all around me. It's all too much I scream in my head. The feelings I tried so hard to suppress are threatening to break free and engulf me in a tidal wave of fury and agony.

I need release.

That thought is constant and I grasp on to it like a life line as I stumble out the room. The floor creaks under my weight as I slander into the "bathroom".

My hand clumsily fumbles with the light, I can hear the long drone of the electric circuits working as they connect and turn on, and the light flickers slightly. I grab the edges of the chipped, porcelain sink and lift my face up to stare into the cracked mirror. I can hardly recognize the person that stares back. The face in that mirror is not mine. "What have I become," I whisper on death ears. But I don't want to listen. Always confusing these thoughts are in my head. I shake it trying to wake myself from this nightmare, but knowing I never will.

Though, there is one way for me to find my place. My hands drop down to below, shaking slightly as I rummage through the cabinet like mad till I felt it and my body freezes. I grasped at it, knowing very well what would happen, but… I held it tightly in my fist anyway. I knew what it felt like in my hand, the cold steel with its raw edges cutting into my skin. The sensation it caused on impact. Almost comforting in ways. Just like he used be. But I won't about him right now, my mind won't allow that.

I clutch my fist tighter and wince as my metal means of release further pierces my delicate skin. I can feel it all and that there is something I crave and hate. The fact that I can feel every ounce of pain at the first snag, like a trigger it makes me whole. Being able to feel, which something I want, but at the same time I don't want to be washed away and smothered in it's grasp of unfeeling. My release allows my escape from the world and its problems. It's a perfect sense of nothingness that's just like a pill.

My palm is starting to throb as it starts to turn red with my blood. It dips out through the cracks of my fingers, running down my wrist and onto the floor. But I don't care. I can feel it all but yet the same time I can't.

I love it.

I open my hand and stare and the site. Smiling, I carefully extract the razor from its nest. The wound continues to bleed, flowing slightly. "Strange," I murmur in fascination, but I don't process anything else as that blood soaked hand again grips that stained piece of metal. My fingers hold it perfectly despite the cuts inflicted upon them.

It's the same as always, but not its different than other people who choose to cut themselves. Those people are all the same, simple in there styles of cutting. Going for lines on their wrists and legs. Maybe small at first then larger and deeper as the cutting progresses. Making them in fine straight lines, row after row, column after column. Eventually they give in to their addiction and go for the main vein. Charleston's really.

I however chose to be more articulent about my mutilations. My arm is out and uncovered as I press the oblique edge to the tan skin. It is surprisingly easy how it tares as I make that perfect slanted line. I don't hesitate in doing it deep either. I know my limits and tonight I'm willing to push them to their very extent.

It hurts at first, stinging slightly, unbearable. But with the pain comes the pleasure and the feeling of belonging. The knowing sense of belonging that I belong no where. Blood seeps from the open capillaries forming ribbons of crimson. I lift up the blade and reset it, ready to strike. My faded scars barely show on my ebony complexion thus leaving its own reminder in my mind to retrace their path when I'm done.

Unlike the other people I take care of my cuts, putting triple antibiotic cream on to keep them from leaving a permanent mark on me. Some scars or traces are abound to show but I can't allow the public to witness them, not yet anyway. When I first started my experiments in this, I didn't have the common knowledge not to press down so hard and so I nearly passed out from the blood loss.

Luckily I did have the enough sense to go the hospital. Wrapping my hair in a rag and giving them an alias for my name. We can't have people knowing what the great Shuichi Shindou is up to can we. People at the hospital didn't ask much, they don't when you give them enough money or an offer for a quick round in the broom closet.

I lift the razor up again and cut myself, moving further up my arm. The coppery life substance that I so depend on for survival is now flowing freely onto the floor. It will probably stain what is left of the tile but again it doesn't concern me. I finish the letter and get ready to start on another, but it's all getting too much. The room is starting to spin as I press down deeper, harder than I should. But I have to finish.

My hand and shirt is soaked with blood as I start to sway, the light that keeps on flickering is only getting blurrier. I can feel it all give way as my knees buckle and I fall to the floor, sliding in the pool that surrounds me. Still I cut till the razor drops from my fingers and hits the floor, its echo ringing in my ears. I clutched at my arm and the indentions upon it. NO MEANING these are the words of my flesh. Starting at my wrist and working down to the elbow. They mean nothing and at the same time everything. This is my lesson that I have now learned. That there is no such thing as fairy tale joy, love is an emotion played by fools. Life has no meaning.

My arm won't stop bleeding and I realize that I have pushed my limits…maybe too far we will just have to see. But before the darkness takes me I think, I'm not giving up. No I'm just giving in. Hn...Yuki…

TBC…

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