A/N; Okay, this was a chapter written about four months ago, WAY before Roses and Violets. So it isn't my best. I edited it a bit, and I'd appreciate reviews. 3 u~

Blooms of red

Memories gory

Tears of pain

I'm not a sad story

White gave way to red, a mesmerising scarlet that stained everything it touched. The boy watched as the seemingly endless stream of blood pooled around him, and cocked his head. Almost curious, he peered down at the large gash that gushed the red liquid, the tear in otherwise flawless porcelain skin. The tears were autonomous, came of their own volition, almost as though his empty blue eyes could cry for what he could not have; his life.

Yes, his life was gone. What else was there to lose? Every time he closed his eyes, the dark memories that threatened to spirit away the tattered remnants of his sanity...the images that flashed rapidly and in quick succession...

...dirty hands...

Hands, so many hands...

Laughter as they watched...

Fire, flames of crimson that burned everything...

Blood; pools, streams and rivers of blood...

Faces, half burnt by the flames, eyes dead and glassy, his parents already too far gone to be helped...

Chains that bound his limbs as he was put through unnameable agony...

The unknown faces swimming before his eyes as the world turned from him...

The months that stretched into years as his childhood was stolen in a slow, hellish manner that no sentient being should be subjected to...

The others, watching with pity from behind bars of cramped cages, because he was the one most tormented...

Him with Father, the man that had adopted him after the disaster...

Father dead, dead by his own hands...

Then Dragon and Daddy, dead...

And, as always, the last image was that of his own face, sullied by the monsters that broke him.

Cuts draw blood

My future's stormy

My heart is aching

I'm not a sad story

He didn't need their pity. He wasn't dead was he? He was broken, and he was useless, but not dead...

A delicate hand was raised in a slow movement. His fingers, grasping the glistening blade, didn't shake. The pain was what he needed, what would break the hold that the monsters had on him. The blade was lowered, and pressed against the uncut skin in an almost caressing movement. Then, eyes narrowing in emotion, a rare moment when his normally empty face came to life, he slashed his skin.

The pain came, as it always did. A slow moan escaped him at the burning sensation that jerked him out of the haze he lived in. It was delicious, this pain. The blood came in streams. That was normal, too. It just seemed strange that such a small body could hold so much blood.

There was the dull, constant ache in his otherwise dead heart...his heart ached, simply, for what had forever been lost; his childhood, his life, his soul...the monsters had stolen all of that from him. His future would hold nothingness. Nothingness, and more sessions like this; locked in the bathroom with a blade, watching his lifeblood disappear as his fate had.

Broken and useless

Malady at its glory

Sullied and wrecked

I'm not a sad story

Yes, he was broken. A doll with no soul, a smile painted onto his pretty face by the hand of obligation. He was sure, now more than ever, that death would be better for him than this repulsive lie he dared call a life. He was dirtied, sullied, destructed by fiends that had never paid for their deeds. He was the very personification of malady, of misery, of the low state to which mankind may fall. Stripped of his life and ability to feel, he had only his pride left.

He had pride. He would never tell anyone of his weakness. They may be able to help him, his adoptive parents only had his best interests at heart, but he would never divulge his weakness to them. None but the white tiled walls, the glinting blade and the mirror that made tears spring into his eyes could see this. No one must know, no one could understand.

They were blind, the people around him.

They saw nothing. They didn't understand his moods, his aversion to people. It wasn't that he couldn't function in society; it was just that he didn't trust society enough to function in it. It wasn't that he was afraid of going out, of being with people; it was just that he didn't trust them. (How heartbroken his adoptive parents had been upon the initial realization that he didn't trust even them.)

He refused to let anyone know what happened within these walls. He had only his pride left, and he would not give up the one thing that kept him from completely falling apart.

He would not be a sad story.

Blood gushing rivers

Sobs shaking my body

My life slips away

I'm not a sad story

He could feel it; the dizziness and blurry vision that he dreaded. Spots of black and red danced in front of his eyes, which had glazed over. The strength was leaving his delicate limbs, and he gasped softly as he collapsed to his knees.

This was bad.

He had cut too deep, lost too much blood.

There was a perpetual sea of shimmering scarlet covering the tiled floor, and he cried out. For the first time in a while, an aching, broken noise bubbled from his lips. A sob. Tears streaked down bloodstained cheeks as the sobs grew more violent and quicker in succession.

Oh, let them hear. Let them all hear the pain he'd had bottled up for so long. Some kind of numbness, far more horrifying than the dull pain that constantly ate at him, spread with slow purpose through his body.

This was bad, very bad. Panic caused his butterfly breaths to get shallower, and he tried futilely to keep the blood from coming out quite so quickly. He was going to pass out.

No, he knew that dangerous lull. He'd felt it once before, at the hands of those monsters.

He was going to die. He'd lost far too much blood.

He could, faintly, make out the pounding from the door. Oh, they must have heard him.

Everything was getting darker. He felt, once again, cold hands gripping him, and choked back a cry.

Sound, colours, movement...someone had broken in. The faces of his adoptive parents swam in front of his rapidly failing vision. No, his father was gone. Frantic yelling, probably into a phone, was heard over the rather unsettling noise his mother's sobs were making.

Eyelids fluttered closed, and fingers finally loosened from the blade clutched in his hands. He'd know that finality, that freezing chill anywhere. The brink of death, where he was lying now, where he had sent the ones he most loved, was something he'd never forgotten.

I don't need your pity

No need to worry

Just about dead

I'm not a sad story

"Goodnight...mama and papa...father...daddy and Dragon...Goodnight everybody," he mumbled to himself.


In the arms that cradled him, the images of his stolen life flashing in his mind, the broken doll did something no one had seen him do in years.

The child, the boy, aged ten years as of that day, giggled as he drifted off, into death's cold embrace.

And thus ends another life, shattered as it may be.