The lunatic is in my head.

The lunatic is in my head.

You lock the door

And throw away the key

There's someone in my head but it's not me.

Roger Waters

Brain Damage

'How are you?'

Incessant chattering assaulted my ears, a television blaring news somewhere next door. Black flooded the floors, dripped from the ceiling, the walls, greedy mouth ready to engulf the bed in one bite. Papers scattered across unfeeling tile alongside empty takeout cartons, numbers glaring with hungry red eyes. Unpaid bills chided from disorderly piles atop the kitchen counter, stained envelopes baring ragged teeth. Countless articles of clothing spilled from dresser drawers, draped themselves over chairs, hung from unsuspecting knobs–

'How are you?'

A sock lay beneath a discarded pen, crimson toes dyed with ink. I couldn't remember what happened to the sock's companion, nor when the ink cartridge began to leak. Even now, if I listened closely, the oozing liquid assaulted my ears, seeped into my brain–

Drowning out the dark.

'How are you?'

Finally, I forced my attention elsewhere. Kuwabara's text glared from the luminous screen, as it had for days now. An innocent inquiry, stemming from a kind and generous heart–

A message I could not answer.

The plants whimpered and my gaze shifted, staring instead at the slow-moving fan. Stale air circulated the room, lodging the stench of week-old dishes and parched soil in the back of my throat. Sweat peppered each pore, matting my hair; pooled at the most inconvenient places. I'd given up any semblance of sleeping in pajamas after leaving mother's house months ago – the practice always struck me as odd – yet now donning garments even to go outside presented a daunting task. Each garment became a threat in and of itself: socks schemed to amputate my feet; pants plotted to dislocate both hips while boxers battled to castrate their vulnerable captive. Shirts pulled at chest and wrists like so many restraints while ties tethered my throat, silencing screams and promising sleep through strangulation–

Needless to say, clothes and I had long-since refused to see eye-to-eye.

Discarded undergarments nipped at my toes but I kicked them away, glancing once more at the cellphone. After several failed attempts of sending a satisfactory reply I'd given up, resolved to our fate. According to the restraining order, we were allowed contact through five text messages weekly, one phone call, as well a single face-to-face meeting a month. How Koenma intended to carry out these conditions was beyond me – he certainly had his hands full with the integration of human and demon-kind – though I had no doubt King Enma would make good on his promise:

Spirit World could be quite meticulous when it wanted to be.

While Kuwabara showed great restraint in sending a single message, Yusuke essentially gave his former superior the finger by orchestrating no less than twenty texts, fifteen phone calls with as many voicemails, as well as appearing outside the bank one night when I left work.

I scrolled through each of the messages in turn, chuckling dryly at his ever-colorful language and crude similes, more often soliloquies than intended conversation starters. Each boasted understated frustrations or inquiries into my well-being, all in true Yusuke-fashion. The voicemails began pleasantly enough, ranging from asking about mother to whether or not I'd "gotten lucky" yet. However, these soon devolved into screaming matches with my voice recording, the worst of which threatened posting nude photographs of himself on my windows if I did not return his calls.

Each remained dormant in my inbox.

Hiei's response was the only one which caught me off guard. While I did not expect the younger demon to become enraged and throw a tantrum like Yusuke or show blatant concern and confusion as Kuwabara had, I predicted the news would elicit some form of reaction, a sense of anger or loss. However, Hiei simply held my gaze as was his habit, eyes unmoving as ruby pillars.

"Of course, you will still be allowed into the Human World – your position within the border patrol gives you that right." Alaric's infamous winter gale whipped at my hair, unforgiving air stinging both cheeks and eyes. "Although, barring the breakdown of the peace or an unprecedented situation, we can only contact one another sparingly."

Here he snorted, a sound nearly lost to the wind as he took the proffered document containing restrictions specified for him. Things such as text messages and phone calls meant nothing to Hiei. "Koenma is a fool."

"Regardless," I pressed, recalling the consequences outlined in thick ink. "Any threat to this peace will be counted as an act of treason, one punishable by death. Whereas Spirit World may feel inclined to mercy toward the others because of their predispositions, we cannot hope for such luxuries." Hands slid into ready coat pockets and I willed logic to overtake me, to tamp down how I truly felt. "We have come too far for that, my friend."

The young prince's cowardice in making me courier to Spirit World's whims boiled my blood, giving rise to a hunger deep inside I'd almost forgotten. Kuwabara's shock pushed my face against the soiled pillow; Yusuke's anger dug into ready skin, whereas Hiei's cold silence stoppered the scream in my throat, the sound escaping as a muffled whimper. Moisture beaded beneath the nails at my scalp, heavy with the smell of copper–

The bed sheets would not last until morning.

Why not just kill them?

I froze, blood budding between gritted teeth. Slowly, I forced myself to breath, counting backwards from ten and, when that did not help, one hundred. Certain impulses began entering my consciousness of late – baser instincts, thought patterns from a life past – each more difficult to control by the day. Nightly, grotesque images haunted my dreams, visions of exacting revenge on all who'd contributed to this pain. Time and again, I witnessed Koenma dead at my feet, Enma's head upon my table; Yusuke and the others torn by ready claws and barbed vines; silver locks dyed red by their essence:

Unsurprisingly, sleep and I parted company last week.

A glass vial watched on next to the coffee maker, amber liquid glinting in the moonlight. While I'd modified the medicine Suzuka gave me during the Dark Tournament to suppress these urges, I'd failed to take it as of late. The struggle between mind and body persisted daily regarding nourishment, every faculty having decided to reject anything with a trace of smell or texture. Unfortunately, the 'miracle drug' fell in with the former.

I'd been unable to drink it for quite some time.

Suddenly, a knot formed behind my navel, ravenous teeth twisting my gut first this way then that. A muffled groan into the pillow as eager knees rammed against my chest, hands trembling like frightened birds. No, please no . . . I'd been able to eat tonight: a gift left by Yusuke, complete with a caricature of him kicking a fox in the rear. I couldn't–

Kill them.

I was running before conscious thought hit, scrambling across the battleground of a room as a hand flew to my mouth. Grace had no say when I slipped on a pair of slacks; gross motor skills did not care when I crushed containers along the way, some of which cut the bottoms of my feet. Several papers followed as I threw myself over the toilet bowl, vomiting what precious little made it into my stomach.

This continued for several minutes, long after I'd lost anything save acid to regurgitate. Undigested noodles swam merrily in their new home, half-eaten bits of vegetables and fish winking at me. Each breath ravaged my throat; sounds I had not made since kit-hood filled the narrow space, stuck to the walls:

Reminded me I was pitifully human.

Fire gripped my esophagus, warred against my tongue as shaking fingers sought the elusive lever. Finally, cool steel touched skin, sending muck-filled water away in a colorful display. Cheek pressed to unfeeling porcelain, the whimpers bubbling my throat faded to barely audible whines. A few moments longer and these too fell away, joining the knots in my stomach.

Once the room ceased spinning, unsteady feet slick with blood forced me to stand, hands blindly grasping the sink. I did not wish to see the red prints upon the floor, nor hear the phone buzzing in the next room. Eyes tracing the specter in the mirror, I desired most what I could not have–

I wanted all of this to stop.

"Shuichi, do you have a moment?"

Hands stilling in sorting the month's statements, I glanced over my shoulder. Kazuya Hatanake stood in the doorway of my office, effectively barring a speedy escape. A wisp of a man, my stepfather was both slimmer and shorter than I, though he possessed a calming spirit which immediately put those around him at ease. Dark suit tailored for his slight frame, he refused to show any signs of unease, though anxiety rolled from him in waves.

Precise stacks forgotten, I turned to face him, thoughts immediately flying to mother. "Is everything all right?"

"What? Yes! Well, actually," Here he paused, running a hand through peppered hair. "That is what I wanted to talk to you about."

Several scenarios ran through my mind at once, none of which fully explained his cryptic speech. "Oh?"

"Do you have some time now?"

"Well, actually," My voice trailed off and I glanced to the work still on my desk, the black-and-red numbers snarling on each page. "I still have a lot of work to do, Dad. Perhaps some other time?"

"Shuichi . . ." Here he sighed, a great sound for such a small frame as he nudged the door closed. Immediately, I felt my back stiffen – he never demanded privacy for our conversations. "Look son, your mother and I are worried about you."

Again, thoughts flew faster than I could catch them, adding to the nausea which had become my companion. "I beg your pardon?"

"In just six months, you've become our top loan officer – outranking even those who have been with the company for years."

My brows furrowed, thinking back over my time with the firm. "And this is unsatisfactory?"

A sigh and he rubbed at his eyes, glasses balanced atop prominent knuckles. "While we appreciate your diligence, Shuichi, you have handed in more work than I believed humanly possible during that time – more than some of my employees accomplish in an entire year."

I sought to read the intent behind his words but Kuwabara's face entered my mind's eye, chasing away any hopes of inference. "What are you saying?"

Another sigh and he smiled, a gesture reeking of pity. "Go home, Shuichi. Take some time off: go on a trip, stay at home, I don't care how you do it. Just get out of the office for a bit."

Immediately my stomach surged, images from the night before assaulting my senses. A dark hole reeking of mildew and perpetual rot, a wasteland of seeping containers and putrid laundry. "No, I'm quite all right. Really." I assured hurriedly, forcing a smile to curl both lips. "There's no need to–"

"This is not negotiable." An edge entered his voice and he stood a bit taller, arms crossing over his chest. "I'm ordering you to take a week off." A pause, a spark of insight lighting his eyes. "And if I hear of you taking work home again anytime soon, you will be fired." My eyes narrowed without my permission, incensed by his words. "Do we understand each other?"

For a brief moment, I debated arguing with him, begging . . . anything to avoid that fate. Wax leaves scraped my skin as I reached for the spot of green, desperate for a spark of life, a sense of usefulness, belonging–

'How are you?'

"Shuichi?"

I blinked, raising my gaze. The stones fell from Kazuya's countenance to reveal open concern and he stepped forward, reaching for me. "Are you all right?"

Scarlet streaked my vision as I shook my head, shoving the offending hand into a jacket pocket. "Yes, my apologies." His mouth opened but I gave a bow, one much deeper than the situation required. "I will do whatever is best for the company."

Again, his brows furrowed though he did not object. Bowing in turn, his body swiveled as I glided past, already opening the door to the now-stifling room. "Shuichi–"

"Have a good day, Dad." My gut twisted as I smiled for him. "See you next week."

He returned the small wave and I turned, walking down the hall. Already, the apartment taunted me, beckoning with decrepit lips–

It was going to be a long week.

A/N: Thank you for all who have taken an interest in this story! This is a new take on an old character, though I cannot bring myself to believe Kurama is above depression and loneliness, especially with how long he has lived. Add to that how much humans feel on a basic level and this is what came when I took away his support system. Nothing good or bad lasts forever though, so take heart!

Thank you so much WhatWouldValerieDo for beta reading!

So, Kurama has been left to his own devices for a week. How will he fare without any distractions, and is a break really the best thing for him? Read on to find out!