If You Don't Have a Smile

Warnings: Alternate universe. Attempted suicide.

Disclaimer: I do not own the characters found here in. They belong to their rightful owners. I am merely a humble Clouffie servant, trying to spread the unconventional love.


End 1: GOODBYE SKY


They say that the most prominent fear is death, the endless abyss. The fruition of our struggles. Our sleep eternal.

Even if we, of the human spirit, do not realize it, our bodies do, continuing to trudge on against the forces of the world as our minds, constructed in fragile strands of electrical signals and ropes of rudimentary tissue, deteriorate within the ocean of vast despair which so encompasses our lives.

We must live, or, at least, that is what our beings tell us, even if our hearts cannot bear the growing weight of time.


He watches quietly from the floor as their receding backs slip away into the thinning crowd of students. Maybe he won't get up this time. It certainly seems easier than standing.

He licks his lip, tongue running over thin flaps of broken skin and lapping up the taste of blood-ridden saliva. It was worse this time. The side of his swollen temple pulses in time with each of his fragmented thoughts; a simple beat following a long and complicated drum solo.

It. Hurts.

It. Hurts.

It. Hurts.

The beating of a heart, and he wishes it would stop. The words seem to so little describe the aching of his being, his mind. There is nothing which can do so.

It. Hurts.

Maybe that knowledge is what hurts most of all.

Alone; there is no word that can describe how much it hurts to be alone. To be left behind. To be the one knocked down, with only his own hands to pull himself up.

Only general terms to define physical affliction.

It. Hurts.

He can't go on, he can't. It hurts too much. It's too much!

He can't do this. Why isn't anybody here? Isn't he calling for help? People always help others, so why not him?

It. Hurts. I. Can't.

He clings to the open door of his locker; pulls himself up; walks away.

Can't. I…?


Even as the mind wishes for it, the body instinctively fears that which it cannot comprehend. As a man drowns, does he not still try to breathe, even if breathing means certain death?

Breath is life. To breathe is to live. In order to keep beating, the heart requires oxygen, which, in turn, requires the lungs to "breathe," a process in which the body creates a vacuum in its chest in order to draw in air to the empty spaces, where tiny capillaries transfer oxygen to circulating blood that then transports this precious gas to the cells throughout the system.

We are all wired the same way. We, as individuals, do not choose to breathe; the components of our beings decide whether we live or die; tissue and bone, blood and air. And these components always choose to live.

Only when our bodies can no longer successfully complete the necessary circuit required in order to breathe, do we truly die by our bodies' consent.


He enters the quiet abode in a rush of cool autumn air and solemn countenance. He stands there, fingernails slightly blue, for a minute, deciding whether the trek into the kitchen is worth the benefits of a pack of ice to his bruised forehead, and maybe some ice cream to sooth the bitten insides of his cheeks and tongue.

No. Perhaps not.

He bypasses the open entrance and instead trudges up the stairs to his stark and bare room, merely to fold into himself as he falls to the bed; the white sheets mold into a rumpled nest, but retain no warmth in their outer reaches.

"Is this…," he begins, "Is this…"

He curls in tighter on himself, trying to squeeze out the words where his vocal chords cannot.

All I have to look forward to?

He feels the urge to hold something, to squeeze and scream, or maybe sob. But, no one is there; no one can possibly be there. He wants to call out to his mother, let the mollifying syllables fall from his shaking lips, but the words catch in the back of his throat; she's gone, to work, or maybe the next boyfriend, to fill in the empty spaces that his father has left behind.

He can't go on, he can't. It hurts too much to live.

"If this is living," he licks his lips, "If this is living, then…"

Then…

He pulls himself up; stands; walks away.


But, we all die. We, as individuals, know this, or come to know this; the body, on the other hand, proceeds forward unwaveringly, unaware of its ultimate goal to shuffle off the winding mortal coil.

Is it impossible, then, for we as individuals to choose our own deaths?


He walks.

For how long, he can't remember, but all he knows is that, when he stops, his feet ache and his knees wobble in the chill of a September afternoon.

The old church seems like a good enough place, even though its abandoned interior is falling apart. He looks up and observes a slip of cloud against a bright, cornflower blue sky beyond the ragged edges of a broken rafter.

He breathes in, holds the breath while savoring its cold burn; then, lets it out.

The rusting, metal cross slung against the back wall looms over him as he approaches. His eyes avert at the sight; he's not particularly religious, has never been, really, but somehow looking at the colossus almost…hurts.

He looks back to the sky. He wonders if he'll miss it.

The stolen bullet chambered in a stolen gun seems strangely insignificant in comparison to the rest of the firearm fitted snuggly into his hand. But, it feels so heavy; his grip slips on the trigger while fumbling for the hammer.

He holds the end of the barrel to his head, nuzzling aside his obtrusive bangs.

"The sky…," he mumbles.

His father had always said that he held the world in his eyes. Not now, though. They're empty, just like the rest of him.

"NO!"

The trigger is pulled.


No. Of course not.

Just as we fear death, so do we fear living.


The gun, a black hole in its weight, falls and it doesn't break the silence so much as it shatters the last vestiges of reality smeared upon the blank canvas of his mind.

The tail end of an explosion is still echoing throughout the molding rafters, and his ears resonate to the pulse of his heart,

Beating,

Beating,

Beating.

His eyes lock onto the motionless figure laid along the cross, languishing on the thick nails embedded into the thin hands and crossed feet, before trailing to the face, the open forehead, where a patch of watery sunlight falls.

Dead.

It's dead.

That's all he can think as he observes the quick descent of a scarlet curtain from a small, perfectly round hole.

I'm not.

He takes it in, the figure of a girl dressed in white, the front of the dress staining an irreparable red.

Out of the corner of his eye, he catches movement. One of the lifeless fingers twitches.

He runs, and this time, he doesn't stop; not until he gets home, and heaves up whatever's left in his stomach.

I'm alive.


To live is to fear.

To live is to die.

But, you took my hand, threw away all of my ideals and beliefs and replaced them.

You said to me, "Let's survive."


Here you guys go! Hope this wasn't too bad for you all. I'm not so good at angst. Also, sorry for all of the philosophic crap in this chapter. All chapters will have a bit of introspection, hopefully (I hope I can sound smart! Please, let me sound smart!), which is what the italics bits are. I'm trying to experiment with first person POV, so sorry.

Also, the introspection won't be so long (usually), and, unfortunately, the chapters probably won't be so long either. Remember when I mentioned in the last chapter that this would be a mini-series? Yeah, short chapters, but hopefully frequent updates. These are actually really easy to write in about four hours. We'll see. :)

Thanks to Filipina Shortaay for reviewing!