Yami's koi: this fic contains material some may find offensive. It's a suicide fic. Cattypatra if you're reading this, Fallen Angel inspired me. Cattypatra, this is dedicated to you, Neutral Man, Alainia, Ville Valo & Bam Margera. Thank you.

Neutral Man: if you don't like suicide...don't read. Simple. Please review.

Yami's koi: thank you so much, Neutral Man. You were always there...now. ONTO THE FIC! More at the end!

I grasp hold of the object that will end my life, admiring the shine it took. No one's around, no one to ruin my ideas. No one I can run to if I decide to get help. Though, that's the way it's always been. There was only one who would listen.

I came to Domino because we moved, because of the 'nice' atmosphere. Reluctant, of course. I knew I would regret it, somehow. Not that I miss my old home, it wasn't like I had many friends there either. And those who were eventually betrayed me.

If anything, the only attention I got was violence. Bullies would hunt me down, find me, no matter where I was, no matter where I ran, they would beat me, and I would remain silent.

Once I considered suicide. But I couldn't muster that strength. No, the will. I had only one reason to live, and that was to fulfil my dream. And now that dream has withered, rotted like some fruit, falling away from conscious thought.

I am pulled back to my plans by a car door slamming outside. Smirking, I take myself and the tool of my death to my room--wait, our room. I share one room with another, share my vessel with another. Yes, I am one of the three hikari's. I only hope the others may have a more comforting death than the one I am about to have.

I pause, soak in the sight of every poster on the wall, every colour on the sheets, every scent in the air. Even savour the uncanny darkness. Tch, must've forgotten to pull the shades back before I went to that hell hole of a school. How unusual of me. What little light roams in from a crack in the curtains, and I laugh. It reminds me almost of myself. The tiny shimmer of light representing what is known as my innocence. Weak, no use to anyone, and barely there.

I sigh, baring my wrist to the cold steel of the knife. Then I shiver, my skin unused to the coldness of the blade. I press the sharp edge into my flesh tentatively, then going all out, using my strength to force it to bite the skin.

I then gradually move the knife across the width of my wrist, piercing the skin there efficiently. A well of blood rises to the paleness of my flesh, before trailing along the edge of the knife.

My eyes seem to glitter at this, and I release a shrill, haunting laugh, content that it could draw blood so fast. I would have used glass, had I found any. It punctures the skin much easier, and it would have drawn my darkness to me faster, but I want this to go slow. Slow and painful, just like the way how I feel. No motives have brought me to this stage, but the loneliness. The knowledge that no one's there.

I have thought about the others. I wonder, as the blood pours down my wrist and onto the floor, should they care more when I'm dead than when I was alive, or will they not even notice I've gone?

I conclude then that I don't care. All I want is death; I want it to consume me, like so many others before me. I take the blade from inside my gash, and take a small lick at my blood on the now warmer steel.

I shiver. The coppery salt of my essence is somewhat bitter to my liking. I move my knife then not to my wrist, but to my chest. Devoid of my shirt, I make another deep, stinging wound, the tingle sending bolts of satisfaction into my mind. I urge my hand to go faster, knowing that the pain would be numbed if I did so. Like it has so many times before.

My vision began then to blur slightly, and I smiled, knowing that my end would be nearing. Unaware that the blur were tears that were not my own.

I make one last cut, inside my other wrist, though I find it harder now, the hand holding the knife weakened by the loss of blood. I manage after several minutes to make blood pour, and decide my body has had enough of being cut.

Glancing around, I take note of the blood that's pooled around me. All of which came from me. I smile, knowing what it meant, what proof it gave. Proof that I had finally done it. Meaning I was about to die. And without regret, why should I feel that? I shouldn't feel guilty for what other people have done.

Or rather what they haven't.

A throb begins to form in my chest. Oddly, the pains from my cuts are fading, causing a slight sting, but nothing more. Yet the pain in my chest is worse than any I have ever faced, and I gasp, clutching my chest as I pant for air. I cough up blood, the sticky, nauseous tang of it flowing down, only to pool in the reams that has already come out.

Strange, I think. To have lost so much of this vital liquid, and yet still live. Another minute or so I can live with.

My body relaxes, my knees thudding harshly onto the hard floor. I gasp hard at the pain, thus bringing yet more of the blood from my lips and wounds. With it I feel a pang of fear threaten to engulf me, yet banish it quickly. I have no room left for fear of what I have done. No longer can I live upon this earth, roaming aimlessly and without hope of finding what I need.

My attention then wanders back to the small strip of light. I scorn myself silently: for I should have no darkness in my departing room, when my heart is so numb with angst. Funny, how small things transfix you when you're without hope.

My attention then is brought back to breathing, a shot of pain crashing through my chest. My breathes are short and more laboured now: I know that I won't stay here long. And with my breathing there is more pain, pain that I feel is not my own. It's coming from the link. Realisation dawns. I turn my head, towards the door.

He stands, horrified at what he sees. A hand touches his mouth, then runs itself through his hair--a most endearing habit of his. He rushes over, falls to his knees besides me where I lie, shaking his head. The hand he had rose came down then, grasping my own shakily. I can feel an iciness engulf me, as does the feeling that I have made the most terrible mistake of my life. That there was a way out. It had always been there. And it was my yami.

"How...hikari, my light, why? Please, don't go, I...I love you," he whispers, one lone tear making its way down his cheek, the first I have ever seen him shed. And the last. I weakly smile as I hear his confession, knowing it shall be the last thing I would remember.

"I love you too...Kura...Don't ever... forget there's always... something... worth living for..." I say, closing my eyes silently as death drags me down into is domain. Bakura's tears fall onto my face more frequent now, the warm touch a comfort as I sink into oblivion. Before I fall completely into this abyss, I feel his lips touch my own.

Then, darkness.

Owari

Yami's koi: I actually cried writing this. It reminded me of my own suicide times. The songs that inspired me for this were Papa Roach: Last Resort, Evanescence: My Last Breath. And of course, Cattypatra, the writer.

Neutral Man: if you didn't guess from very early on, it was Ryou.

Yami's koi: Duh. Well...I guess reviews will greatly be appreciated. My other fic is happier than this; it's all about love and fluffy stuff.

Neutral Man: in your reviews, please tell her what was good about this. It's her first suicide fic. Also...do you want a Bakura point of view to go along with this?

Yami's koi: I can do that. He'd be out somewhere, and feel the pain of his Ryou, then come rushing to meet him. Or, I could have Ryou in the underworld, & Ra grants him life again at a price. It's over to you now.

All: Well, BYE! LUVVIES! Plushie of Ryou to reviewers!