He was walking along the hallways of Wharton Academy, laughing and chatting with Fermat as they made their way to their next class. He had no wings or deep depressing past. Everything was bright and hopeful, after this school year, he and Fermat were going to be home school, so they could train to be fulltime Thunderbirds.
"You should have seen his face, Fermat!" He laughed, retelling an event that had happened in his maths class earlier this morning, which Fermat had missed because he was in the bathroom when it happened. "He was gasping like a fish! It was like he wasn't excepting me to know the answer!"
"W-Well, you don't have the b-best reputation when it comes to p-paying attention in class, A-Alan.." Fermat stuttered, his book bag hanging off his shoulder.
"I know, I know Ferm.." He sighed, remembering all the times his father had called him into his office to yell at him about either his grades or about a phone call from the school about how he hasn't been paying attention in class.
If it wasn't one, it was the other.
"It's not like I don't try-" He stopped short, realising he was suddenly alone, the hallway deserted. "Fermat?" He called out, his voice echoing back at him. He turned around, looking if he could see his best friend or anyone really. "Fermat? Where are you?"
He swallowed, feeling a shiver of fear run up his spine. "come on; this isn't funny!" His voice shook as he started to look around more frantically. The hallway disappeared around him, leaving him in a dark vacant plane with no end in sight. Before he could genuinely start panicking, he spotted his brothers in the distance.
"Guys!" He gasped in relief, running towards them. But just as he nearly reached them, just before he could dive into the safety of their arms, he was stopped by a blade pointed right at his chest.
He gasped in horror, and, for the first time since all this weird stuff started happening, terror, at the person standing in front of him. They were wearing all black; their face covered entirely except for the eyes.
Lifeless blue eyes, dulled and grey. They were staring at him.
And maybe the worst thing, the thing that filled him with a fear so big it caused him to shake, were the two huge wings sticking out of the guy's back. He knew with every fibre of his bring who was standing in front of him; he thought as his look of fright changed into a look of loathing.
"You…"
He looked down at the blade pointed at his chest and felt the urge to start laughing, but not in happiness but in sheer anger. "What's stopping you? Run me through.." He growled, his eyes alight with a fury he couldn't control. "Do one good thing and end this.."
His past self, his mind controlled, killing machine, assassin self, didn't more or even blink. He just kept starring at him, his blade staying immaculately still, teasing him.
He felt tears building up in his eyes as he screamed, "Why won't you do it!? It's not like it be the first time you killed someone!" He exclaimed bitterly, balling his fists. "This time it would actually be doing the world a favour, so just kill me already!"
He grabbed the blade and plunged it through his chest.
—
He woke up in a cold sweat, launching upright; his wings knocking over his bedside lamp. He grasps at his chest, slumping forward against his knees as he felt no wound. It was just a dream…
It was just a dream, he thought with a strangled gasp, running his hand through his sweat-filled hair. His cheeks were wet.
He took in his apartment around him, shivering from the cold wind that was blowing in from the hole in his window. He was only wearing a singlet and shorts. (He never wore a singlet in public)
His apartment was still the same small, dingy apartment it always was, which was only two rooms; his bedroom and the bathroom. The space wasn't even slightly big enough for him to stretch his wings out comfortably. His bed was missing a leg and was propped up by a couple of thick books, the wallpaper was peeling, and the hot water didn't work.
He grimaced, spotting the smashed bedside lamp on the floor. He stood up, avoiding the broken light and headed into his bathroom. He turned the tap on, and just stood there was a minute, starring at the running water; letting the sink support him.
His hands were trembling, his whole body was trembling and his cheeks…his cheeks were still wet. He made a sound between a whimper and a sob, trying to get himself under control.
It was just a dream; it was just a-
Dead blue eyes stared back at him.
"AHgh!" He yelped, jumping backwards in surprise, falling hard against the shower door. For a second, could have sworn he saw his nightmare self in the mirror. Those dead eyes…
He gasped, feeling like there was a hand around his throat, cutting off his air supply. It wasn't real; he thought squeezing his eyes shut tightly as tears streamed down his cheeks. You're not him; it wasn't real, you're not him!
It wasn't real, it wasn't real, Alan! He yelled at himself, blinking his eyes open, feeling weak and queasy, drenched in a cold sweat. You're not him…Not anymore.
The reflection in the mirror that stared back at him was nothing like the one he had briefly seen. But It didn't reassure him like he thought it would, he thought feeling himself start to shake. He was bleached white, cold sweat visibly sitting on his brow and his eyes.
His eyes were filled with immeasurable pain, tears leaking out of them like a mighty flood and-
And all his scars were on display. Except-
He sobbed, his legs starting to wobble beneath him.
Gordon would be so disappointed to know that he no longer held the record for the most scars in family, he thought with a sob, unable to look away. He has surpassed his brother in that aspect, something he was sure Gordon would have never wanted him to surpass.
But it wasn't the scars he could see that were bothering him; it was the ones he couldn't…
It was the scars and fresh cuts on both of his forearms, hidden under bandages that caused him the most grief and shame. The reason he could never wear anything but full-length sleeves…
He slowly slid down to the bath floor with a sob, his legs giving way. He starred at his forearms for a second, before unravelling the bandages around his wrists, revealing rows of straight thin cuts.
Some were a couple of months old, and others; others were done just yesterday…
He ran his finger down them in almost fascination. The fresher cuts stung slightly, which made him want to run his finger down them again, but this time harder and with more force, so he'll feel a lot more than a slight sting.
And when that wasn't enough, he put his whole palm on them and pressed down hard; hissing in pain as the cuts screamed at him to stop. But he didn't, he liked the feeling, this little bit of control. It felt good.
But…but pressing on old cuts wasn't enough for him, he needed to feel the pain more, he thought as he stood up in an almost trance, opening the bathroom cabinet and grabbing the dagger he stored in there.
He brought his arm up and rested the blade against his skin. The water was still running, but he could barely hear it over his own heartbeat as he slowly moved the dagger across his wrist. He hissed in pain, watching as the blood seeped out of the wound and dropped into the sink; mixing with the moving water.
He placed the dagger next to the cut he just made and pulled it across again, and again. He didn't care if it hurt, he deserved it and…and it felt good! He sobbed, his left arm now covered in blood.
He frowned, staring down at his arm. Why is he cutting himself when he could just end it? He wondered, staring down at the dagger in his hands. He knew how to end a life quickly, why doesn't he use that knowledge to…to just end this pain?
It would be so easy, so simple; he thought bring the dagger to his neck, his eyes glazed over. No one would care, not really; they would just move on. The world would be so better off without the danger of him in it…
He looked at his reflection, dagger to his throat, and he closed his eyes. Just one stroke and the pain will be gone; it will all be gone-
His big brothers' grief-stricken face flashed through his mind like ice water.
He gasped, his eyes snapping open as he violently threw the dagger away from him, collapsing to his feet; gasping for breath.
No-no-no-no-no-no! He shook his head, crawling back as far as he could, his eyes wide with horror at what he almost did. You do not get the easy way out, phoenix!
He wrapped his arms around his knees, renewed sobs busting out of his still beating chest. You can't do that, not…not to-
His brothers' faces flashed through his minds again, causing him to sob loudly.
-Not to them, never to them…
You got to stay strong, somehow… he thought as he buried his head in his knees, his wings shaking and bouncing from his sobs. Even with it hurting so bad, you-you have to keep going…
Somehow…
For them…
