Lying in the dark, when everyone's asleep and you're wide awake, it can really spark some questions. Insights. Wonderments I didn't pick up on when I was living amongst the others.

What am I doing? Why am I here? Why am I just standing around, playing family, and pretending that everything is fine as the way it seems.

It can be dangerous. It can devour. It can remind.

The clock on the wall ticks away time and I cannot etch away the knowledge of the past. Once again I'm trapped in an endless loop, seeking an escape when there really can't be one. How am I to flee from the things I'd done?

I want so badly to forget, to tell myself it is okay to let go. Days I'm upset with myself for being so lost in my clashing emotions. Nights weave into my head and whisper painful reminders. Memories explode into lights of red and black. Red as the roses the Hughes passed onto me. Black as the molting tips of my feathers.

Feathers. My wings.

It's ironic how well they match my routine of "living". My beautiful designs are alive and luscious, reaching high to the skies, itching to take flight. They weave and tangle amongst one another, feeling, seeking the fresh air of the world, and acting as one. Silver and white mix and join, knowing their places, never seeming to appear lost, always knowing where to go, where to lean, where to tilt, where to flutter. Snow and ice, wintry bites, and scorching flames cannot dig into their flawless quality. Untouchable. Unreachable. Invincible. And the days pass, and they age. The days sip away the colors, drink away the light. They crackle, and flicker, and tear. Black, always the black, seeping into the tiny lines, aligning into the nightly constellations. Feathers start to crumble. Flight is a tiring idea, a childish dream. The order, the assurance, the confidence, evaporates. Gone. Drifting away to dust. And then the process repeats.

I am a broken record scratching a shattered melody.

This is a place of symphonies. There is no room for a deteriorating antique. There is nothing for me to give but the perilous needle to deliver the same distortion my song carries.

I'm only good as dead weight. Nothing more.

Nothing more.

I shift, focusing my eyes upon the glowing curtains. Behind it lies the night. It's plain fact. I don't have to peer around to know this. I've been taught to simply know. Even those who never heard the night will always be there at one point and the day will come at another, they have that knowledge, that reassurance that beyond the lace, glass, ceiling is the night sky.

I wish I could have such confidence in my fate. I desire such sureness, concerning my mind, my intentions. Behind these bloodied hands and murderous body is a beating heart. In that heart is humanity. A beautiful, living, flourishing, kind personality. I wish I could be certain that is who I am, despite my actions.

But I am not a curtain. And this soul of mine is not that night sky.

I am left in the dark, hoping to one day not have to peel back that cloth to ensure of my existence.

These are the tales of woe that hold me on a string. Scattered remains of my being. Nothing left to unbury and rejoin.

Nothing more.

Nothing more.

"Ritzu," I whisper and the wind answers with a soft beating behind those still windows. I cannot help but wonder if it's a beckoning. Whether an invitation to return to the schedule I once dealt or a command that I leave behind the cracking and mending pieces I've been offered. Perhaps it's both. I don't want to figure it out.

But either way, it's a message to leave. It's a message to depart this fairytale of mine.

"Are you angry with me?" I ask and shake my head. I'm speaking to a ghost. This sane mind of mine was slowly disappearing. Soon there would be nothing left but an aching shell.

I love you.

Oh Ritzu. I loved you too. Maybe I still do.

How is it you have me regretting those moments we spent together while simultaneously having me thanking you for such beautiful times? You idiot. Fool. Brilliant. Charming man.

I extend an arm, catching the sliver of lights leaking into the dark. Shadows dance along the ground, twisting and turning into unrecognizable shapes. It's almost pretty, the way the bleak things seem to morph together perfectly. Long paths stretch from objects, sinking into others, forming a bigger picture. Nothing touches yet the shadows are a connection. The table melts into the couch. The window grazes the floor. My arm seeps into the chair where Riza always seems to sit.

A part of me wonders if a shadow could join with other living shadows. People. Like holding hands. An invisible bond.

Gracia pops into mind as does Riza and Maes. I gaze up and over at the vase Riza thought would be great for keeping me company in the nights. My hand reaches out further to lightly trace the glass, then the stems of the silent flowers. Without making a sound, I pinch a standing out shape and lift it up and out and towards my empty chest. I hold it close, breathe it in, and shut my eyes, thinking of green and a different kind of red.

It's not much, but the rose sends a comforting memory. The Hughes shared a precious place and a pleasant moment, but it's not all that keeps me resting through the remainder of the night.

It smells of rain.

And Roy hates the rain.

Flame.

I dream of birds igniting.

I dream of a lone phoenix reborn in the midst of ash.

I dream of flying.

"Misaki?"

I vomit the last of my stomach, cradling my forehead, moaning to prove to my companion I was indeed still amongst the living.

"Sorry," I choke, gagging and accepting an offered napkin. With a violent swipe, I erase away the disgusting evidence of my "anxiety" which seemed the most dependable explanation. I'd woken up minutes ago feeling refreshed from my nightly dreams only to stare down and find the flower I had cradled had wilted. In fact, I'd noticed that all the roses in the vase had passed away to a hideous black and brown. Pieces of petals littered the floor and the vase itself had somehow chipped itself into a distorted, cracked line. At first sight, I immediately felt myself grow pale and shivered.

I had the horrible thought that I was the one responsible for killing it.

Riza politely yawns and takes her usual spot, lifting up my hair and picking off the sticking parts of the rose I'd cuddled with through the night. She doesn't say anything of it which is nice, but it doesn't clear away the screaming accusations of me being not only a killer of people, but a murderer of plants.

"There's no need to apologize. You're just a little sick. Let's get you cleaned up and get you back into bed." She smiles tiredly and rubs my back. When I think about it, I note the progress I've made. If she had done this a few days ago, make human contact, I'd probably shrink away in alertness. However, today, used to her presence, I'd complied easily enough. Nothing of it was bothersome.

I appreciated and feared this realization.

"Right," I answer. "Thank you, Riza."

She nods and I take a moment to stretch back and close my eyes. The cool tile beneath me supports the tremors that travel up and down my spine. The nausea has passed but the shakiness didn't seem promising.

How long had I been here? My shoulder was the least of my problems now. These stresses, confusion, denial, they were getting more frequent. Worse. I couldn't stand around enduring it any longer. Two weeks was two decades now.

And the Hughes gift...

"You know, sitting on the bathroom floor, it really surprises me how different it looks from here."

I glance at the sniper, confused. With a soft laugh she stares ahead and up at the mirror reflecting only the tub and back wall from where I sat.

"I've been in here so many times and even so, ever since you arrived, I've found out for the first time just how much a new perspective can change what I thought I knew from the inside out," she continues and I notice this is the first time I've seen her in slippers. Such a minor thing, yet it's so strange to witness her, wearer of uniform and representative of the formerly, seated with house shoes leaning against the bathroom cabinet. Peculiar how it never occurred to me she could be something other than a soldier; an actual person.

"From here, I can't see myself in that mirror. There's no way for me know if my hair is a mess or my chin is dotted with drool." She takes a second to laugh once more before going on. Quietly I listen, getting the feeling there was something meaningful behind those words, something I was meant to learn. Of course Riza would be the type not to express things so simply. She had to know my love for challenges, my eagerness and stubbornness to solve. What could she be wanting to say?

She points at the mirror, letting her words carry my gaze to the lack of people I saw within its surface. Almost as if no one were in here. Only ghosts.

Another tremor goes through me and I shudder.

"Normally when I pass that thing, I see myself. And to be honest, for a while I hated what I saw." Her eyes dim and I note a distant sadness. A remembrance from her own past? It'd almost slipped my mind this woman had murdered just as I had. Regretting. Haunted. "I'd see the same face every morning when I got dressed and brushed my teeth. I would always have the same distasteful look, the disapproving gleam in my eyes." She pauses to sneak a glimpse at my attentive expression, hinting at something deeper. Something personal.

"Don't you find it funny?"

I didn't. Not at all. But I could see snippets of what she meant.

"I always assume I'm hideous," I find myself say softly, earning a sincerely sympathetic look from my companion. It's startling how horribly true my words are. Never would I have broken into this realization if Riza hadn't made it so obvious. Even from here…

"You see?" Riza says, going back to her observation of the empty mirror. With a slight sigh, she draws her hands up to her chest, holding it closely, dearly. "How is it we just seem to cut straight to the worst possible conclusion despite not standing before our reflections?"

Yes, how is it indeed? We're so prone to coming across that self conjured image of ourselves, there is no way of distinguishing reality from imagination. Hundreds of times I've passed that mirror, seeing a killer, watching the blood pool from my skin, the marks of a beast, a monster, so it's only natural for me to assume that even away from that damn thing, I'm just as horrid. My reflection, I always believed, was destined to act as a reminder. That mirror of mine would forever follow me, even when it wasn't really there, I would remember. Aerugonian massacre. The nightmare of all nightmares. That killer rested not before the glass but behind it.

Sometimes I wished I could just shatter that image and find something sweeter beyond the surface. Something for me to call my own, and be happy with it.

"Misaki?"

"Hmm?"

Riza leans forward, capturing my thoughtful face within her wise gaze. It's scary how brilliant those eyes of hers seem, able to pick up movement from far away, quick to react and pull the trigger. Riza the sniper. Wielder of the vision of a hawk. Hawkeye.

"Do you think I'm beautiful? Inside and out?"

Taken aback, I hesitate before seriously nodding. "Yes," I answer. "From what I've seen and heard, you are beautiful both inside and out."

She laughs, a bit more darkly.

"I don't see myself that way. Not at all."

Of course she wouldn't. It was clear how much she hated herself for her stained hands, her worn down fingers. Years of standing in that uniform and obeying orders given from behind a window. Yet despite knowing what she'd done and what she'd been through, I somehow managed to point out the lingering beauty to her heart and soul. Just because she had taken lives didn't mean she was entirely lost to the evils of the military.

As long as others saw her the way I did, or the Hughes, or even the Colonel, she had a reason to not doubt herself.

If only I could truly accept that concept when it involved myself.

"I'm going to leave you to get cleaned up," Riza says, breaking into my thoughts. I nod, watching her stand, appreciative of the privacy she was willing to offer me. Thankful for the attempt at changing my insights on past burdens. "Make sure to go straight to bed when you're done."

Again that mothering, disciplining tone. Something I was never completely used to in my childhood. Timely scolds and occasional rules, they were a thing of mystery. Papa never put up the barriers. Never had the will to do anything that risked a breaking bond.

So much for that.

I nod once again for her benefit. She responds with a grateful smile, turning to leave me to my messy hair and ruffled clothes. However, before she steps out, she stops to consider something, then extends a hand behind her and towards me. Without warning, fingers fold upon my beaten shoulder and she gently squeezes. When I make no move to show she's inflicted pain, she does it again and looks back to reveal a meaningful glint in her eyes. As soon as it hits me what the stare implies, I avert my eyes. Riza leaves me to my sullen state, shutting the door behind her quietly and I delicately trace the area she'd blessed with her friendly, welcoming contact.

Everything about that look said she cared.

The shadows had linked as I wanted them to. Yet I feel no excitement or gratitude. Only another storming wave of sickness.

I vomit once again.

Woooooo! Thank goodness! Today was a break off morning and afternoon block so I was able to write some more! :D Yaaaaay!~~

(Plus, there's a slight chance I may not have to do my summer homework YESSSSSSS)

Time is truly magical, *sigh*

Soooooo sorry it's not Mustang filled yet, but I promise to get there soon! ^.^

Thanks much you guys! Hope you continue on our little adventure to see how Misaki and the valiant Roy Mustang get along!

Oh, and Misaki apologizes for all the extreme sick scenes.

She has a weak stomach, heh, heh.

Later!

~~Wonder14