It was going to be happy, but then I listened to LP during the writing process and it became depressing. So, implications of suicide/self- mutilation and slash. Uber angst. If you don't like it, go away. If you don't mind it, please R&R.

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I woke up.

That phrase alone implies a number of things about my physical state. It implies, first of all, that my eyes are open, graced by the beauty of nature bestowed through the open window. Another thing that one could assume from that phrase is that I am ready to at any moment get up from under my warm den of blankets and start the frigid day with a morning jog. Both of those assumptions are far from the truth.

The only reason, really, that either are incorrect is that I am quite content to lie here warm, sheltered and happy, knowing I have the means with which to start the day and yet choose not to. My eyes are closed as I listen to the newly started day sound off. Birds chirp, announcing not only morning, but also the arrival of spring; somewhere in the apartment, the cats have initiated their usual early morning tumble. The gentle rhythm of sleepy breathing behind me makes me open a single eye and smile. Of course he's still asleep. He isn't ever up to see the sunrise unless he has to be.

It's sort of sad how little of one another we see during the week, with us working completely different shifts. We end up exhausting each other on the weekends, and then we sleep in until he gets up to make coffee. The scent always wafts through the apartment and makes my mouth water until I finally summon the will to slide out of bed and into the kitchen. I wonder if I should make omlettes today.

No, not with what I have planned. I completely forgot. He'll probably be mad. Of course, that makes it sound like he'll be red in the face with anger. That makes it sound like he'll yell and cuss and beat me senseless, if only to rip the idea out of my head. No; when he's angry, he's quiet. His gaze is heavy, and he looks tired all of a sudden when he's angry with me.

Even as I think of him, a tanned arm snakes over my hip and clutches me to his chest, and he kisses the sensitive skin behind my left ear. He doesn't say anything, though, so I know he's still asleep. If he were awake, he'd say something cute, like, "Good morning, Handsome," and then he would go make coffee in his boxers. I sigh quietly. He won't understand, will he? He'll think it's his fault. I sigh quietly and worm out of his protective embrace. He just wants me to love him; why can't I do that?

I don't know why, and I never will, but 'oh well' is my only thought as I trudge to the kitchen; regret has already come and gone. I pull a box of waffles out of the freezer and set it on the counter. He'll be happy about that. He's never enjoyed being cold, so no matter what he wants to make, I'm always the one to reach into the freezer and grab what he needs. A hand lingers on the bright yellow box, one that I can't recognize as my own. Why is it so small? Who do I know that has hands that little?

I sink to the floor, sitting with my feet under me and my head resting on a cupboard. My eyes are fixed on the pale flesh of my wrist. Where did all those scars come from? What could have caused something like this to happen to my - is it mine? - arm? I pick my head up; it's so heavy to my neck. When did I get so weak? I let myself fall to the floor. The tile is cool against my back in direct contrast to the feverish heat of my skin. Ceiling tiles, lights and a few things close to the edge of the counter are all I can see. The bottle looms at me, and I can't help but think that I should just take my daily dose and go on with the week, loving my man and my job, because I do; don't I? I have these feelings, and they said these thoughts would go away if I were a good boy and did as I was told. "That's it," I mutter, reaching up to grab the countertop. Sitting, and finally standing, I stare at that translucent red-brown prescription bottle. I take it in hand. "Not so powerful now, huh?" Push down, twist, open; almost half a month's worth of pills. With an angered scream, I throw it across the room. It hits the living room wall with a clatter, and in a shower of little white capsules it falls to the ground. "Not the boss anymore. Who's the boss now?" I smile, satisfied that now I am in control - not some stupid white pill - and turn to a drawer whose lock I had picked last night.

He said he was just trying to protect me when he locked that drawer so long ago, but all I can see with the key on the chain around his neck are lies. Selfish lies, no less; he's taken away my happiness to fulfill his own.

'You're the one being selfish,' someone tells me. 'You don't care about him.'

"Shut up," I hiss as my hand inches steadily towards the drawer handle. "I only have happiness in mind. I can't make him happy, because he's always trying to make me feel better."

'What about you? It used to be that he alone could make you happy.'

I freeze, but the talking continues unbidden.

'Ungrateful. You can't stand that your life isn't as bad as you think it is.'

"Shut up!" I scream, shutting my eyes as a hand tightly clutches the feathery locks of hair dangling in front of my face. "It would have just ended up like everything else; he'll give me up or put me where I don't want to be again. Betrayal! Shut up! You don't know a thing about betrayal!"

With tears streaming down my face and fogging my vision, I yank open the drawer. Just as I have known for years, there is a set of custom-made steel knives, sharpened to the point that the edges wink at me even in the dim light of our tiny kitchen. There are five of them, ranging from the size of my hand to the size of my forearm, elbow to the edge of my wrist. I grab the largest on and, with a slight shift of my hips, close the drawer. I hear the rest of the knives clatter together, but it doesn't matter as I press what could be called a butcher knife to the underside of my wrist, where the veins show a dim blue. 'You know you don't want to do this,' the voice hisses.

"Shut up," I whisper. "I want forgiveness, and if I can't give it to myself, then I just want a place to belong. That I can have." I draw the knife slowly across the part of my wrist just below the heel of my palm, and I realize that they must be sharper than originally thought, judging by the amount of crimson pulsing down my arm to drip on the tile. My eyes close of their own accord as the familiar rush of adrenaline seizes my senses. I slash again and again with abandon, not caring that suddenly my hearing is fuzzy and I feel weak, dizzy. The world spins around me.

"Sweetie? Are you okay?"

No.

He can't see me like this.

"I heard you shout something, and a little noise, and..." He trails off as he rounds the corner. I finish pulling the blade across my skin staring into those soft, uncomprehending eyes, and we stand in silence. The knife falls out of my limp hand and into the puddle of blood I've formed on the floor about my feet, splashing my leg with the stuff.

And I woke up.