By: Spooks
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There are times when the silence is too loud. Sometimes it hurts to breathe.
I don't know why, but my heart aches with such emptiness. Every breath I take, I want to cry at the utter desolation I feel inside. It's terrible to be so empty.
No one knows I feel this way, and how could they? I mask it so well, smiling, concerned for others' well being. Oh, of course they see me express grief sometimes. The hatred I have for war, and for killing, is obvious. So they all rationalize that this is the cause for my sorrow. They think I deal with it well, pushing aside my misgivings and striving on in spite of way it hurts me to hurt others. No one really wants to know, anyway.
And, oh, God, I feel so selfish for being this sad. I just want to make it stop, but I can't. People need my skills, my money, my influence. They don't need me, though. I merely fill a role. Build a robot to take my place, no one would notice.
It's not as though I've had a hard life. Quite the contrary, my life's been a cakewalk, especially compared to the other pilots. Heero had his humanity methodically stolen from him. Duo, how can I even start on what Duo has dealt with? Life on the streets, full of starvation, abuse, and terrible plagues. And after finally finding a place to call home, having it stripped so brutally from him? Wufei, losing his wife, his clan, and his colony. He's lost just about everything. And then there is Trowa, a mercenary before he could even read. He's told me about what happened to him, what the older soldiers would sometimes do...it's terrible. All that suffering, and all I can say is that I lost my father. And that was during the war, when I was old enough to deal with it. Oh, and how I dealt with it. Sometimes I wish I had died, or that Heero would have killed me when I shot Trowa down. Maybe he could have avoided his amnesia if someone had gotten to him in time.
My closest friends, my comrades in arms, and I feel so insignificant compared to them. My life really hasn't been filled with strife, my childhood was relatively happy. I didn't become a pilot out of duty, honor, or need, but because I wanted to do something other than sit back and watch. While it's true that I had done things of actual importance before, most of my so-called "good deeds" were nothing that went beyond the calls of common human decency. And none of these things was ever enough to fill the hollow in my soul. An emptiness that I have no right to even claim. So I'm tortured by the way I feel. Why do I feel so terribly awful with no reason?
The world would be better off if I was no longer here. The Manguanacs would be able to go home and live their lives with their families, no obligations to fulfill. My sisters would be that much richer. My friends, well, I suppose they might care. A new pilot would have to be trained. No more stays at richly furnished safe houses. Less funding for repairs. I sometimes wonder how they'd treat me if I weren't rich. I'd like to think that we'd be closer, but then, maybe not. I don't know. I like to think they'd care for other reasons. That's not enough to keep me going for much longer, though. I sniff quietly in the dark, I'm not really thinking clearly at the moment.
For a while, I thought that it would be great, despite the circumstances, to meet and be around the other pilots. I was right, at first. Meeting Trowa was wonderful. Hiding out with Duo actually was fun. Heero helped me after the incident with the Zero system. And when all of us were together, Wufei proved to be a good conversationalist. We all worked well together, a team. And for a short while, I thought I was truly happy.
Happiness is a strange thing. Even when at its peak, it cannot completely banish that evil little voice telling you not to get used to it, that the threat of loss and emptiness lurks behind every waking moment. Happiness is a fickle thing, it can disappear in an instant. And when something happens to shatter it, that little voice declares its triumph.
And so I sit here, in yet another safe house. We're between missions at the moment. It's so late that it's morning, and I'm the only one awake. I glance across the room at Trowa's bed, he's just a bare outline in the moonlight that has managed to peak its way around drawn curtains. I can't stay here much longer, not feeling like this. Not where I can see him.
He's another source of pain for me, and he'll never know. I'm so numb inside from denying that I love him. If he knew, he'd never be at ease with me again. Oh, we're so close, but we can only be so close without him knowing about me. About truly knowing about me, anyway. I'm no good, I'm terrible, I taint everything I touch. I'm so unworthy just to be his friend, especially after what I did to him. I silently gasp as I hold back my loneliness and heartache. I have to do something.
So I stand up and silently make my way to the small bathroom in the hall. I close the door before I turn on the lights, ensuring that none of the fluorescent luminance spills out into the hallway and disturbs any of the others in their slumber. The silence, the emptiness crescendos inside me in waves of pain and loneliness as I gaze at my haggard reflection in the mirror. I need to relieve some of this pressure. I have to feel something, anything, besides what I'm feeling now. And so I resort to getting out my razors and the first aid kit.
I roll up one of the sleeves on my pajama top, revealing a pale forearm covered with thin pink scars. I study the fading scabs that run along the top of the veins in my inner wrist. I never really cut deep enough to really do damage. I've only nicked a vein a few times. Every time I do this, I bandage myself afterwards. I truly think suicide is for cowards, and it is the height of selfishness. However, if one day I cut too deep, that would be an accident, not suicide, right? So most of the time, I'm very careful. I clean myself up afterwards, and I always wear long sleeves. No one really wants to know; no one really needs to know. I can control this, and it'd be selfish to have someone worry about me.
I try so hard not to be selfish. I try not to feel the sorrow, but I'm becoming overwhelmed again. I have to feel something different. So I will make myself feel. I pick up the package of razors and dispense one into the palm of my hand. It's glittering in the bright fluorescent light. With a deep, shuddering breath I slice neat little furrows into the flesh of my arm, parallel to each other. After a slight pause, the small cuts begin to ooze blood.
I sit down on the closed seat of the toilet and roll up a leg of my pajama bottoms, pulling down the sock on that leg. My legs are much better for this. They bleed more and it's more normal to wear pants all the time. I prop up the exposed leg on the other one, so the inside of my calf is facing upwards. With no hesitation I slash the skin several times. That's better.
I put the razor back in its package and put them away. Now, I'll just sit here for a few minutes and exist. I move from my seat on the toilet lid to the floor, leaning with my back to the sink cabinet. What sleeves I rolled up stay rolled up, and I'm careful to not let the dripping blood fall onto my clothing or anywhere that it cannot be easily cleaned. When I first started this, I wasn't so careful. I think I was hoping someone would notice. Now I realize that I cherish this sick ritual, and even if someone found out I'd keep doing it. A couple of weeks ago I counted the scars that I could still see. One hundred and twenty two, and I'm sure I missed a few. It's been a bit worse for me these past weeks, so the count is probably up to two hundred at least. A nice number, if I do say so myself.
Sitting there, letting the blood from my leg drip onto the linoleum tile, I realize that I truly don't want anyone to know anymore, like I used to. I've realized that it might worry whoever found out. I know this type of stress relief isn't normal, but I can't help myself. I like it. And I really don't want to be so selfish as to cause anyone, especially the other pilots, to worry.
I am broken from my musings when someone knocks the door. Jumping up guiltily, I look around. Oh, this is not good. There's a small pool of blood on the floor, and, oops, I must have been distracted, I dripped a little from my wrist onto the sleeve of my rolled up pajama top. Oh, there's still someone at the door.
"Uh, sorry, I'm using the bathroom," I say, managing to sound groggy and tired, like I had just gotten up a few minutes ago. Even as I am speaking, I'm swabbing at the blood on the floor with a piece of toilet paper. I must have been sitting here longer than I thought, it's dried into a little pool. I scrub frantically, but only succeed in dripping fresh blood from my arm onto another part of floor, this time splattering a tiny drop onto the bathmat in front of the sink. "Just a minute!" I say with rising panic. I have to get this cleaned up!
"Quatre? That you?" It's Duo. He sounds half-asleep.
"Uh, yeah, that you, Duo?" I ask, even though I know it is, to buy myself time. The dried pool just came up, good. Now if I put the first aid kit back, I can roll down my sleeves and deal with the cuts later. Yes. That should work. I shove the first aid kit back under the sink, behind a bag of cotton balls. I flush the blood soaked toilet paper, meanwhile pulling my sock back up to cover some still weeping cuts, and I roll down the pants leg over that. Then the arm sleeve comes down, and I notice that blood has also dripped onto my hand, staining it red on the inside of my palm. I clench my fist and turn my arm in towards my side, hiding the stain. I run the water, and turn off the light before I open the door and step into the hallway. Duo is standing there, braid half undone and looking at me with bleary eyes as I slide past him on my way out.
"You alright, Q? You look a little off," he mumbles quietly as he peers at me in the darkness.
"Yeah, I'm fine," I whisper back. I can feel my pants leg sticking to the cuts on my calf. I hope it won't come through and show on the outside. I like these pajamas.
"Okay," he says as he steps into the bathroom, switching on the light. He glances back at me, now with more light. I wince slightly and tuck my bleeding arm slightly behind my back, out of sight. Biting his lower lip slightly, he looks at me closely before closing the door. I heave a sigh of relief when the door is completely shut. That was too close.
I cannot go back to my room right now, the blood may stain my bed sheets. Ah, screw it, I'm tired. The blood probably won't get through the fabric of my pajamas anyway. Even if it does...I'm a soldier, right? I can do laundry and get the blood out without anyone catching on. Sure, no problem.
So I stumble back into the bedroom, barely glancing towards Trowa's bed as I pull the covers over me. I must be more tired than I thought. It doesn't hurt so bad inside anymore, I should be able to sleep now. Good night, my love, I wish I could be worthy to tell you.
And so I sleep, breath slowing, heart calming as my secret bleeds, soaking my clothing, and eventually my sheets. Sometimes it hurts to breathe. So...stop breathing.
~Owari~