AU to chapter 74: Broken Rabbit.

AN: I have no idea what possesed me to write this. It's literally one of the most depressing things I've written to date. I think it fair to warn you that if you cry easily or a bit of a softie, either turn back or grab a tissue box.

Undone

The day had been like any other. The sun rose, but it did not chase away the darkness lingering in Break's remaining eye. It was still there, he knew, but somehow he didn't know. Was it still there?

He had snorted at himself, like he had every morning since losing his eyesight – besides, he wasn't in a mood to deal with another "cheer up" from Reim if the man found out about the most popular topic his thoughts chose to dwell on. It was pointless, anyway. And just when had his head become so chock-full of rambling rubbish?

He smiled cynically to himself "Getting mellow in your old age?"

Yes, today was certainly an overly cliché bright sunny day he had no business ruining. Reim and Gilbert had played cooks and served them breakfast, Gilbert and Alice had spat fire at each other over the dining table, Oz had laughed at their antics and Sharon had been ready to bite their heads off by the end of it. Yep, just your regular day.

If only he had known that it would be their last, he might have cherished it more.

There's a putrid smell in the air, like a heavy curtain closing on the final act of a play. But if life was a play, Xerxes Break wanted his money back.

As a Child of Ill Omen, bad luck had followed Break like a starved dog. He hadn't minded much though, not when he had Master Sinclair and his precious little Mistress to serve and take care of. They were good people, one of the few that didn't pay attention to the color of his eyes or silly superstitions.

If only they really were silly superstitions! Because wherever Break went, tragedy followed. The first was the Sinclair massacre, committed by bandits when only the precious, still so vulnerable young heiress was the only survivor. The second had, again, been the Sinclair massacre, this time committed by an unknown party of aristocrats. And his little precious Mistress had... had repeated his mistakes.

If only he'd turned around then, in the Family Crypt after laying the deceased to rest. If only he'd had the strength and courage to face the little girl he had failed, the precious child which he had last seen crying and alone, surrounded by coffins and molding walls, as if she too, was just waiting to be put in a coffin.

He had been the one who dug her grave and all but pushed her in, burying her alive.

If only he weren't a foolish human and hadn't brought about the same tragedy a second time. Only it had been worse worse, because he'd lost all that had once remained.

The Third major tragedy he had caused came in the form of one Gilbert Nightray, young and grieving and alone in his Master's Manor even though he had no one to serve. So reminiscent of Sinclair...

And if he'd dug Sinclair's grave, he'd damned little Gilbert to a living Hell.

He'd survived it though, proved to Break that he was stronger than the man had ever expected. Gilbert had pressed on to be by his Master's side once again. That last one never failed to pack a punch and he blessed every dainty out there that Gilbert's eyes weren't bloody red.

Not like his brother... that damn maniac, it was as if Vincent Nightray went around actively seeking tragedy! Planting the seeds of destruction and despair purposefully!

How disgusting. That haunting red eye, the color of ripe vine, intoxication and shallow – but not unlike his own, single remaining eye, the color of spilt blood.

Crimson, what a truly disgusting color. The color that followed him everywhere. The color painting the grass underfoot even though he couldn't see it. The horrible smell he'd grown accustomed to long ago now prickled his nose like it had so long ago, on the night of his first kill under the Chain Albus, the White Knight.

Horrible, horrible red.

He could almost see it, even though he couldn't. A small body laying abandoned in the meadow like a discarded toy, sprawled in a heap on the floor. Pale skin dirty with splotches of crimson browns and bloody reds. Limbs dangling at odd angles, sunny hair filthy and half-lidded eyes that had long lost their shine.

Would his eyes be crimson or emerald now? Break wondered.

The crimson eyes of B-Rabbit, demented and powerful and waiting to spill the blood of its' opponents, like a well-used sword. A Chain. Chained in madness and blood and tragedy like all the children born with those bloody eyes.

No, his eyes would be emerald. Oz's eyes would be that same warm peridot he remembered twinkling with quiet delight on those rare occasions that they had been truly genuine in their happiness, which had ironically been more and more since Break's blindness. They would be green, without any incarnadine contaminating the twisted pureness that Break had slowly gotten so used to. Too used to.

He sees his own bloody eye in too many of his close ones to not curse his own existence. His cardinal gaze, like a spreading red stain that tainted the world.

Break could hear sobbing, thick and heavy, through the ringing in his ears. Raven's, but not Raven's, rather of the little boy out in the rain, crying for his lost Master. There was someone swearing, demanding and pleading for the impossible as Chains dragged her away from the body of her Contractor. She was sobbing too.

He wondered idly what happened to Vincent's little puppet – she had been with Alice, hadn't she? – but decided he didn't really care.

There was a shadow dancing, flickering in and out of his blurring, barely there vision. Sharon? Was his little precious Mistress here, or had she run back to her home and was witnessing this tragedy, the tragedy he had executed with his own hands, from a far? He wondered if Sharon could ever find it in herself to forgive him. He knew he couldn't.

There was someone asking why, though who, he had no idea.

He was almost glad he couldn't see the scene.

Almost.

He could still hear Alice's screams, pleading with the Will of the Abyss to just let her go, let her go so she could reach Oz and make sure that no, he wasn't dead and Break hadn't killed him and he was going to be alright.

He could still make out Raven's sobs in the background, hear the crunching of mud and imagine the broken young man bringing the broken body of his Master into his arms, clutching and clinging and unwilling to let go even though there was nothing to hold onto anymore.

Break hadn't want to lose any of them either, he'd realized. He'd realized it long ago, but didn't do anything about it but try to back up his denial with uncaring actions. But he didn't want to lose any of them, and it had been one of the most frightening and unnerving revelations of his life.

He could hear the neighing of a Chain flickering in and out of existence, with its Contractor most likely in a too emotional state to concentrate on keeping the connection stable. He could hear labored breathing and just about smell her tears at the edge of the clearing. Was she leaning on a tree for support? Why was no one comforting her? But there was no one to comfort her here, and even if she'd gone back home, there was no comfort in that big Manor that had always been too spacious and far too empty for Break's taste. He wondered if the girl who once called him "big brother" would even let him come back home with her after this.

He should ask Reim to go and take care of her. She needed him more than Break did.

And Reim. Reim was the person asking why, or maybe he wasn't, the world had grown pretty dim and twisted for Break to decipher the meaning of anything anymore.

There was a hand on his shoulder, comforting and strong even though Break could feel the tremors running up and down the limb. Reim, was he trying to comfort him? Him of all people?

Despite his inner turmoil and self-loathing, or maybe because of it, Break found himself leaning towards Reim. Maybe it was the force of gravity at works, for Break's body suddenly felt too heavy for him to hold it up on his own. Maybe it wasn't. Selfishly, he didn't care. He just wanted to lay down.

He collapsed on Reim's shoulder in a coughing fit that scratched at his insides and made his throat burn and flood with blood. When the haggard sounds finally died down, he could just make out Reim mumbling comforting nonsense to him – things like "it was the only way," and "you did the right thing," and "it wasn't your fault" but never, ever was "it'll be alright" because they both knew it wouldn't.

Break didn't understand how someone like Reim could possibly exist. Reim was far too caring and sensitive to be real, he cared too much and had died because of Break even though he really didn't but it would have been Break's fault nonetheless because he would have left him just like he did Sinclair. He would have signed his friend's death sentence or perhaps he would have killed him just like he had–

"He died with a smile on his face," the murmur penetrated his conscience like a knife stabbed through flesh. "He died smiling."

And even though Reim had said it like that, soft and gentle and comforting, all Break could think about was all the dolls littering the shelves in the deepest level of the Abyss, the playground of the Intention. They were all strewn about, chattering and babbling and glassy-eyed and with too wide smiles. A plush rabbit sitting abandoned somewhere in the mess, dressed in a white ribbon and a vivid red vest.

Why had it come to this? There was no point in asking "how", because Break found it painful to drag himself through his own memories, but–

Why? Why did it have to be this way?

Why was there ever a being named Jack Vessalius and why had he tainted the world with his twisted soul? Why was there a toy brought to life and why was it more human in some aspect than the man it shared a body with? And why had he grown to care?

Why?

Why was he always the biggest fool of them all?

He had known, in that calculating, cold, ancient part of his mind that Oz's time in this would end soon enough – one way or the other. He had known and even while knowing he'd somehow grown attached. Not in a familial way, like with Sharon or even little Gilbert (though he would never admit that) and not even in the way he cared for Reim, his closest friend. He'd grown attached to Oz like he had grown attached to Alice, like an unwilling teacher who kept an eye on his adventurous charges.

No, such a picture was too innocent. Such a picture was reserved for innocent little children who knew nothing of the world, and those children weren't his charges. His charges were lost and confused and clingy, they were sad and happy and human and he could no longer faze them with his unnerving jokes.

They were children even though they weren't, and he cared even though he didn't.

In his mind, they were pawns and weapons and dolls that freely allowed him to pull their strings. In his chest, something always hesitated, if only barely. It had annoyed him, once, but somehow he was grateful for it – for the minute proof of humanity still left in him.

There was no humanity left in his empty shell now, because he'd damned everything to Hell even though it had been headed there from the start.

Still, he had been the executioner.

And even though he hadn't been able to see the face of the fallen boy, he could imagine it – in a hundred, million different ways – and it made him sick to his stomach every time.

The events that were once crystal clear in his mind were now blurry. His head was swimming and he could just barely recall the last few minutes – minutes, were they hours? Were they days? Where they seconds or a forever stuck in blood and horror and good intentions? It was like a fog had begun to settle over his senses. – before the dreadful deed had taken place.

But he still remembered running with Mistress Sharon over the grounds, ordering her to go back to the Rainsworth Manor – and her refusal and outright threatening him with a good slap to the face with her fan.

He remembered bursting into the clearing where he knew his allies and enemies would be (even though, at the time, he hadn't known who his enemy would be).

Break remembered.

After stabbing Leo, the once servant of the deceased Elliot Nightray, B-Rabbit had gone on a rampage – cutting down Pandora agents and Baskervilles alike. There was blood and laughter, laughter that tore itself from Oz's throat even though Oz wasn't the one laughing. Jack's laughter, the sound had been like a melody from a broken music box.

After killing Glen Baskerville, the possessed Oz had been preparing to cut the chains binding the world to it's rightful place. He had been so enticed in his little ritual that he had not noticed Break sneaking up on him.

He had came as close as he could from behind, activating Mad Hatter's power and using it with as much force as his body could withstand – more, more than he had dared in a long time – and plunged the sworn through the rib-cage of a young boy with bright eyes.

There was a screams – screams? There were two voices screaming, almost the same except for the pitch. One young and belonging to a boy who managed to wiggle his way into hearts with only the best intentions in mind and the other of a man who bore right into one's heart without permission or a care of how much damage he would do. Break almost expected to go deaf from the sound.

And though Oz had smiled – was it in resignation, in relief? – as Break took his life, the only thing it reminded Break of was of all the dolls in Alyss' playroom. All abandoned in a sea of useless toys rarely played with, all with twisted little souls, all once human or of human make. There was one that had never had a smile spread across its cloth like skin or a sparkle in it's not-green eyes.

But weren't they all dolls? All sweet, porcelain smooth skin that was as cold as death and with glassy eyes void of souls. Broken dolls, that's what they were. Cut strings hanging from their crumbled limbs, cracks showing on those frozen expressions and just waiting to fall to the ground and shatter into fine, porcelain white powder.

His hand came up to rub his face and he felt Reim adjust his grip on him. The sobbing hadn't quieted down yet, he noted. The grieving melody fluctuating from sobs to screams – but only male, which mean that the Abyss had already swallowed Alice. The thought made him cringe slightly. Another soul lost to the Abyss, another soul he'd sent there.

Xerxes couldn't help but wonder morbidly if the girl would survive the dark and lonely void that was the Abyss with her heart full of grief and confusion as it surely was now. Would she go mad, alone and with her only light extinguished?

And what of Gilbert? Would he want revenge? Would he try to kill Break for ripping his Master away from him after he'd finally gotten him back? Would he lose all reason as well? Would he seek to change the past despite knowing it could never truly be how he wished it, that it could never end well? How desperate would he be? How lost?

His face was wet, Break realized with a frown an eternity later. His face was wet but not with water. No, this substance was stickier, denser. He felt Reim tense besides him, most likely noticing what he had moments ago.

Break's smile was coated in irony, a smile of a man who wanted to die.

Even his tears were tainted with blood.

Review, please? I understand if you don't and if you want to mob me right now, but yeah, I want to know what you think/feel right now. Please don't flame me for this.

Edit (04.03.2015.): Story continues in Gamma Cavy's "Mending". Though that doesn't mean you should forget to review!