***UPDATE*** I am reworking some of the earliest chapters, adding to them as I originally wanted them to express. Part of this reasoning, is I need to re-connect to the story. I've lost my "touch" with it and although I have a massive of quickly-laid out notes & chapters written, it seems off. I will NOT be updating every chapter before I start adding to the end...I will probably not overwrite other chapters, rather I think I am gonna put them in a new "version" or on my Deviant Art channel.

I don't own Adventure Time or any of the characters within. This occurs before the Wake Up/Escape episodes happen. Just a side note - this story is majorly not in character for ANYBODY in the series. It plays off what you know, but makes things more adult/more realistic.

Comments more than welcome.

***WARNING***

This could be triggering for some - Severe angst and self harm, possibly more as it grows.

Rated T for the most part, although I may move it to M if it continues along as it now is.

Chapter One - Does Anyone Remember?

Finn stares straight ahead, unable to tear himself away from the numbness that filled him. Although he didn't remember much of the trip, he found himself standing in front of his treehouse. He was home, home... the empty shell of a place that once held happiness and warmth. It wasn't home now, just a place to sleep and store things.

Taking a key out of his pocket, he opens the front door into the treasure room. Wandering in, he shrugs off his green backpack, letting the well-worn bag drop onto the floor and spill open. A few coins roll from its depths, stopping against the already massive piles filling the room. Lightning flashes outside, illuminating the room and shadowing Finn's features into a skeletal mask. A low distant rumble of thunder warns of the impending storm's arrival.

Unconsciously he swings his arm, aiming to shut the door behind him. He clips it, sending it swinging, but it doesn't latch. Slowly, shuffling toward the ladder, he makes his way up to the living room. He simply stands there, staring into the dark room. The place was quiet, unearthly quiet and still. Scanning the space, his eyes alight on a sheet of paper propped up on the table. Gingerly walking forward, he can see it has the sloppy handwriting of his brother. Picking it up, he holds it close to face to read in the darkened room.

Yo Bro,

Lady needs some help with the kids so I'm gonna head over and see what I can do. BMO came with me. Food's in the fridge, make sure you eat. Be back in a few days. Later bro.

Jake

He reads the note twice then lets the paper fall from his fingers as his arm drops to his side.

"You too, Bro..." His voice sounds strained and weak, as if the very act of speaking was more than he could muster. Lightning flashes again, accompanied again by the low rumble of thunder. Then the rain starts, first lightly then quickly turning into a downpour, pelting the foliaged roof the massive treehouse. Still standing by the table, Finn slowly looks around the room, seeing all the things that filled his life, once upon a time, with a sense of happiness, of hope, of love ... of... "Home." he whispers into the darkness.

Lightning crashes as a single tear rolls down his face. He looks over toward the clock, it was late, nearly 11pm. Another tear spills down his face as he reaches up and pulls off his white hat. Free from its restriction, his blonde hair tumbles down, obscuring his face. He closes his eyes as more tears start to flow and stands there, head bowed, in the darkness weeping silently. His hand opens, letting his hat slip from his fingers and fall to the ground. Carefully, he slowly makes his way thru the treehouse to Jake's and his bedroom.

"Not one of them. Not one of them ... remembered." He whispers to the darkness surrounding him. I thought they were my friends, my family... They don't need me. They only want to use me, the Great Hero of Ooo. He thinks as he stumbles thru the darkness toward his room. They don't care. Did they ever care? Or have I been fooling myself all this time?

Finally climbing one last ladder, he enters the cramped dark room. His messy bed, complete with its various random furs sits like the remains of some hulking beast. The only time he even comes into the place anymore was to sleep, which he has done far more than normal in the last few months. Of course, if anyone had been paying any amount of attention to him, perhaps they may have picked up on strange behavior. If they cared. Standing there, he can feel more tears fall down his face. Lightning lights up the space, highlighting the stark contract the various pieces of furniture. Most items are laden with random objects, but the lightening reflects off something on the top of his dresser that catches his eyes the most. Four picture frames line the top of the aged dresser. Four pictures that he once considered some of his most prized possessions.

"Did any of them ever really care?" Shuffling forward, he pulls his shirt over his head, yanking the long sleeves roughly down and off his arms. As the lightning comes again, it illuminates his scared and beaten body. It wasn't an odd sight to see him covered in bruises and healing injuries. His carefree attitude and wreck-less willingness for action over thought, often left him with reminders. As the light fades, if anyone else were to see him now, they would realize, this was not normal, even for him.

His skin, normally vibrate and glowing, was pale and held a unhealthily cast. The muscles that normally were hidden under a light layer of body fat, stood out in stark relief, each rib could be easily seen. Covering his pale flesh were dozens of fresh and healing bruises, old scars, but also fresh injuries. Considering how he often pushed aside psychical injuries, often ignoring them, there were more covering his body than normal. Across his chest, down his stomach, up his shoulder and down both arms. His arms held the highest number, dozen on each, criss-crossing over each other all the way down to his wrists. Some were old, healed and scared. Others, fresher, barely holding together in the earliest stage of healing.

Dropping the shirt, he crosses the small space to stand before his dresser, staring down on the frames arrayed across the top. Picking up the first picture, he stares into the glassy surface. The picture displayed a scene from years ago of him and Jake, outside this very treehouse. Jake looks like his normal self, but Finn is much younger. They both look happy, doing their signature fist-bump and hugging each other. Oh how times have changed. Jake, once so carefree and spontaneous, now has Lady and his kids to worry about. He's grown up as much as his hates to admit it and it's noticeable. Over the last year, he has spent less and less time with Finn and more time away, being a dad and husband.

"Jake, how could you, of all people, forget? I never forgot yours. Never." Anger washes over him, stirring forth rage from inside and he brings the photo frame down on the edge of the dresser, smashing it. Staring down at the shattered glass, he releases his grip and lets the damaged item fall to the floor. More silent tears fall from his red rimmed eyes as he glances at the other pictures. The subject of the next one was Princess Bubblegum.

She stood there, all prim and proper, with Jake and himself flanking her. Several of the candy people including Peppermint Butler are surrounding them, everybody looks happy and cheerful. But to him, it feels like another lie. Bonniebell, Bubblegum, PB... always thinking of her subjects and kingdom first. Always searching for answers in her science and technology. She called him her knight, her champion, her Hero. He once loved her, with every ounce of his life. He tried several time to explain his feelings toward her, but she pushed him away. "You're too young Finn, too childish." Those words wounded him worse than any sword or spell, they tore his heart and soul. It left a hidden wound that he tried to burry in his vault and move on. He wanted to push past the hurt, to prove to her that he wasn't a child, that he could be the man she needed.

That old wound was open, bleeding invisibly inside his aching heart. Again rage swelled up through him and he brought down her photo in the same fashion as Jake's, smashing the glass and wood.

"You lied PB. You lied to me, used me... you never cared." The frame fell to the floor to join the ruin of it's companion. "I wasn't one of your precious creations, so you didn't have to worry about me. You just needed a tool to tackle what you couldn't deal with." Looking back to the top, two more frames waited.

The next frame was a black metal one, a fancy scrolled affair that seemed fitting for the subject it contained. Marceline, the self claimed Vampire Queen. She was wearing her outdoor clothes; long gloves, umbrella and sunhat. Her infamous bass axe was strapped to her back. Her expression was odd, she was making a strange symbol with one hand with her forked tongue poking out between the raised digits. Marcy, who was both wild, playful and adventurous, and also frightening and dangerous. He tried to get close to her over the years, tried his damnest to be a friend, as much as she claimed she didn't want one.

Every time he got close to her, she would push back, often joking him to the point of blatantly insulting him. She considered everything a game, and perhaps to one who had lived as long as she did, it was. It felt like she never understood how much it hurt him when she joked him, mocked his actions or turned his emotions upside down. He once thought he could grow to love the vampire, but after years of her jokes and taunts, he couldn't stand the pain anymore. He knew she had her own messed up childhood, but why did she have to mess his up as well. Her photo suffered the same fate as the rage demanded a outlet, he brought it down, but the first strike failed to do more than twist one of the fancy edges. A second, harder hit shattered the glass, letting the metal frame warp. Unbeknownst to him, or perhaps he was beyond caring, the frame fought back, the twisted scrollwork slicing into his hand and drawing blood. Falling the floor, it bounces once and lands face down.

Reaching for the last picture, his hand hovers over the simple wooden frame. The subject of said frame was that of his ex, Flame Princess. She stood alone, shyly waving with that cute smirk she would get when she was around him. Remembering, he brought forth the memory of taking that picture with BMO. They were outside her new house Finn and her had built. The one on the sea cliffs... the one where he had finally gotten the nerve to kiss her. A frown forms on his face, as his memory drags back the pain of that horrid day. It was a precursor, he understood that now. Their fate was sealed, it was the beginning of the end. It was the day his heart broke, although he refused to accept the truth, even at the possible cost of his own life. Another day, not far away, she would return to the Flame Kingdom and choose to leave him. Yes, he had hurt her too, but he didn't fully understand why or how, he was young and stupid, foolish. He still loved her, in a way he never did over Bubblegum or Marcy. Her passion, her life... it was so much like his own, but at the same time, so opposite.

Although it was almost a year past, that hurt never went away. It couldn't, he didn't want it to leave. It was a reminder of his failure, of the fact that he wasn't perfect nor was he as good as he thought he was. As others thought her was. Rubbing his thumb across her face, he smears blood across the photo. Looking down at his hand, he can see the crimson fluid continuing to leak out from a fresh wound. Watching the blood, a sudden giddiness overtakes him. He rubs more blood across her photo, his red merging in with the red of her natural form. All he could see though the bloody haze was her twin coal black eyes, staring at him. Blaming him. A snarl works its way free from him as he raises the frame up and smashes it. The glass erupts out of the frame, bouncing off his bare torso. The photo slides loose and he rips it free, letting the remains of the frame to fall. Grabbing both edges, he rips the offends picture in half and tosses it aside.

Lightning flashes again, highlighting another object on his dresser, one that had been hidden behind the now destroyed frames. A long thin, bright silver scabbard lies there, alone in the now returning gloom. Reaching out, he gently picks up the fragile blade, slowly drawing it from the scabbard, the sharp edge of the blade seems to glow faintly. His only friend...

He had been dungeon crawling for weeks, trying desperately to keep himself from thinking about his screwed up life. He had stumbled on the opening of some long forgotten hole and took the chance that it was the very distraction he was seeking. It was, but it was a strange. It was trapped, like all good dungeons should be, but half the traps where already disarmed. It wasn't until he was deep within did he start to find the bones, remains of whoever had come before him. Then he found the traps. The place was crazy deadly and gave him the chance to lose himself. He was in his element.

It was after he emerged and was sitting outside in the fading daylight, that he took the time to sort through his haul. Most of it was damaged, rusty or just out right broken. It was a disappointing collection of random pieces, all except the silver dagger. That had been at the very bottom of the dungeon, the only decent item in the place. Picking up the fragile blade, it suddenly occurred to him that FP would love it. Sliding the blade free from its scabbard, he had sat there, absently playing with it. Even now, he wasn't sure what had happened, had he fumbled it or had it twisted in his grasp, but it slipped free from his fingers.

Falling, he reached for it and missed, letting it lightly graze his forearm. To his surprise, a razor thin line appeared across his flesh. It hadn't hurt, at least until the blood started flowing. In shock he sat there, watching the blood run down his arm and drip onto his pants. The pain in his arm was strange, it hurt, but not in a bad way. For some reason, it felt good, almost euphoric. Liberating even. He leaned down, picked up the fragile blade, caught it's edge in the setting sunlight. As the blade reflected the reddish light into his eyes, he found himself bringing the blade down against his arm again, making a second deeper gash. More blood welled up and again, the pain came, but also that sense of calmness. It put the hurt of his memories into the vault of his mind, slamming the door shut for the first time in months. Releasing the breath he didn't know he was holding, he leant back on the ground, calm and relaxed. Slowly, he raised the silver dagger up to his view, a smile across his lips. Whatever it was, it had become his new friend.

Over the next few months, whenever he felt the memories creep from his vault, he took the blade and drove them back into the darkness. To hide what he was doing, he started wearing his long sleeve shirts, even though summers in Ooo where killer hot at times. He was worried someone might find out, might even notice his change of attire, but nobody said anything. Never once had any of them asked. Sadly, that did nothing to help improve his ever increasing negative moods. Time passed, the blade became his only friend as those around him grew ever distant and more occupied about their lives over his.

With little thought Finn brought the tip of the thin blade down against the flesh of his stomach. Pulling suddenly, a thin line appeared. At first no blood came, so he placed the edge slightly high, pressing harder and repeated the action. With the second line drawn, the blood finally came, weeping like red tears down his skin.

The blessed pain came with the blood, the calmness that he had come to rely on ebbed into his soul. The rage was still there, burning inside like a ember. It wasn't enough, the hurt was still there. The ache, the betrayal, the sorrow. Just make it stop, make it stop! Again and again, the silver blade dances across his pale skin, drawing a roadmap of pain. Filling up the available space on his stomach, he turns his fury against his arms, first covering one then the other in weeping wounds. Blood falls around him like rain, splattering the floor, covering the remains of the pictures he so recently destroyed. Crimson drops coat the smiling faces of those he once called his friends, his family, masking their happiness with his pain.

"None of you, NOT ONE GLOBBING DAMN ONE OF YOU REMEMBERED!" He screams, tears and blood flowing freely from him. "DO I MEAN SO LITTLE TO ANY OF YOU!" A sob escapes him as he drops to his knees. Landing roughly, he throws back his head and howls. The sounds that issue forth from his mouth was soul-shattering in its rawness. Thunder rips through the treehouse, it's matching lightning lights up the miserable figure. For several brief seconds, his screams fight the peals of thunder , fighting to drown out the might roar of mother nature. Gradually his voice gives out, his throat torn raw by the force of his venting. His vision dims as he slumps forward onto his hands, the thin blade still tightly gripped in one blood coated hand.

"None ... of... you" he croaks faintly, coughing violently as his throat spasms. His eyes, bloodshot and swollen stare blankly ahead, seeing nothing. Lifting his head, he turns and starts to crawl toward the ladder. Even his last friend couldn't fix what was wrong with him, what was broken inside. The ache was still there, the rage and anger. All he can think of is to hide, to find the hardest, loneliest place in the house. To lie down. To give up and give in to the darkness inside.