END: SCINTILLA ANTHOLOGY VERSION (2011)

"Somehow, he'd never thought his blood would be so red." An account of the final moments in Mewtwo's life.

My heart is breaking again,

warmed by you once, then thrown to the cold.

Like glass it shatters into so many pieces,

I know it can never again be whole.

So as time trickles by, I remain, bleeding,

weeping for losing your laughter and smiles.

Speak to me on the embracing wind, dearest,

and I'll fly to you on death's silver wings.

In fat, crimson droplets, his blood spattered against the tiled bathroom floor. Somehow, he'd never thought his blood would be so red. Having never bled before (he'd always seemed untouchable, hadn't he?), he'd never actually seen its color. Yet it was red; not black like a demon's, not blue like some extraterrestrial's, but the same red color as the blood of so many others, whether they were human and pokémon. That seemed somewhat ironic to him, considering that - even though they shared this similarity - he didn't belong in either classification.

Staring at his torn forearms, where his arteries had been sliced open by a blade (crafted just for this – he'd refused to use a common razor), he wondered why he'd chosen this way to die. Perhaps he'd done it for the throbbing pain, or for the slowness of the method; this way, he could feel himself fade. A gunshot, on the other hand, would have been quicker, but the noise would have attracted undue attention (presuming he'd declined a silencer, that is). Jumping to his death, he supposed, would have paralleled his rise and fall more appropriately - but then his body might have been found and used. There were so many options to choose from, but he supposed it didn't matter so much how he died, just simply that he did.

Of course, by taking his own life, there was a chance that what came next would be worse than what came before. Yet even if he were the type to believe in after-realms, he doubted that there would be anything waiting for him. After all, he'd not been created by God, so God couldn't have given him a life's purpose to offend, a soul which could be sent to Hell or Heaven. Yet Hell was merely a human nightmare, and Heaven their dream, and even if he'd been born, not created, he wasn't one of them. He wouldn't have been placed in their realms of death, nor into the pokémon Paradise beyond the horizon. He was not enough like them, though his form and abilities might be similar. He was something else entirely, drawn from void and shaped from dust, and into both he would return.

Perhaps, he mused, it was better to die this way; for his strength to be sapped until he fell asleep, never to awaken or be rescued. He didn't want either of those things, but sleep would be welcome. He'd been tired for far too long. So he supposed it was convenient, wasn't it, that no one knew him anymore? That there was no one here that cared, no one who'd weep and try to wake him up. He'd erased himself from the memories of those who might have, and in doing so, erased himself from the world. And that was a fate worse than death in many ways, for no one would know he was gone. No one would be touched by his absence, and it would be as if he'd never been alive. Yet that was appropriate too, wasn't it? He never should have lived, and he never really had. Instead he'd known his share of emptiness, and more than his share of despair. He'd caused most of it himself by denying the thing inside his chest, his mind, that thing that others called a heart. He'd thought it a useless burden in his youth, and so had cut himself off from it and what it meant to live. He'd rarely experienced the positive things in life, had rarely known joy or tranquility, pleasure and passion, or the beauty one could find through love. Instead he'd known anger and greed, known the pain of duty, and had know the sorrow found in solitude. And he'd know, more than many, just how callous the world could be to an outcast.

He'd experienced that for most of his life…but not all, he reminded himself. Not all.

He hadn't asked for or wanted affection. However, it had come despite his wishes. It had swept aside his illusory "purpose" and destroyed the solemn peace he'd built. It had penetrated the shields he'd erected around himself, had melted the ice around his heart. For a short while, he'd become more than just an observer, more than someone who watched his days pass him by uncounted. His eyes had been opened to the possibilities of what might happen if he allowed it…but in an instant, those possibilities had been taken from him. That warmth and hope had been stolen, and he'd never had the chance to see where they might lead, to witness the wonder his future might hold. And now, all too aware of what he'd lost, of what was missing, he felt emptier than ever before. Left behind in the chilly rays of the moon, he'd felt terribly alone, and had been haunted by the memories of sunlight and smiles. And contrary to the adage, the pain of it had only worsened as time had passed. He'd been injured in a way he couldn't heal…perhaps in a way that could not be healed.

He'd felt like a shadow of what he'd once been, and believing that the night would be more fitting for him, he'd returned to the darkness he'd briefly left behind. For awhile it had soothed him, had promised him relief…but its whispers had been laced with poison, and had only deepened his grief. He'd eventually turned to physical pain, hoping it would distract him from the bone-deep ache that flared up whenever he remembered. Yet as he'd battered himself and played with fire, leaving bruises and burns that faded within a few days' time, he'd always been reminded of the fact that he still lived, while she had died. At the thought, he picked up the blade with his telekinesis, and slowly sliced into his other limbs and across his chest. As the cuts seared and oozed, he mused that God, if It existed, must surely be depraved – for why else would an innocent person die, while an abomination like he remained? What rhyme or reason could there have been to justify the choice…? Looking back on his memories of her, he tried to make sense of it, tried to understand why she'd smiled as she'd died. Yet he couldn't…he simply couldn't understand.

And for the second time in his life, he cried…but his tears weren't clear, and tasted more of copper than brine. The tiled floor beneath his feet grew slick with blood, and the shadows crowded around him but said nothing; they sensed he wanted no further "comfort" from them. Soon he'd be leaving them behind and going on to whatever came next. And while he couldn't say whether or not she'd be there, if there was slightest chance she might be…well, that was a chance he'd take.

Eventually he weakened from blood loss, and as he swayed and crumpled onto the tiles, he curled into a ball and shivered. He felt so cold…. Yet that was only natural, and closing his eyes, he allowed a thousand memories to play behind his eyelids. He even smiled softly at some, for there had been moments so full of potential and filled with sweet laughter. Yet eventually those bright thoughts dulled, and he felt himself drifting off, his body growing heavier by the second. Knowing it wouldn't be long now, he sighed out a name, and gave himself over to the end. Blackness overwhelmed him, then stillness, and with both came the cessation of pain…and then he was gone, having vanished into eternity. The humanoid feline, the clone of mew, lay dead on a bathroom floor in an abandoned apartment building. The blade he'd opened his veins with lay beside a photograph, which was filled with the face of a female he'd known for only a short time. Yet somehow in that small while, she'd carried a light into the blackest regions of his soul.

Somehow, she'd made him understand how beautiful a life could be with love…and how terrible it could be without it.