This idea jumped up and smacked me in the face demanding to be written, but I was hesitant at first because Bleach isn't an anime that I watch frequently. In fact, beyond the first two DVD box sets I've only seen a handful of episodes and even fewer regarding the Winter War Arc. I apologize for my poor writing ability – its been at least two years since I've attempted any sort of literary excursion. Please enjoy.

Side notes: In this story, Ichigo has lost most of spiritual powers except those of his inner hollow which will be referred to as Shiro. There is a reason for this, so please don't point out later on that it makes no sense. I want it this way.

Disclaimer: Bleach is property of Tite Kubo, since I obviously can not draw very well. I am merely using the characters for my own entertainment.

Warnings: This story does contain self-harm and mentions of self-harm. If this content bothers you or acts as a potential trigger, please do not read it.

Chapter 1. Apathy

Ichigo held his breath as the blade scraped over tender flesh along his wrist. Damn, it felt good. He watched as burgundy flecks spattered the floor of his shower stall; red on white. Hmm...He rather liked the décor. Repositioning the tool along unmarred skin, he slid it again, loving how it parted the skin neatly to free the blood beneath.

'Yes...'

He exhaled explosively as the hand holding the razor shook suddenly, dipping down and ending the cut in a wicked curve along his vein. More red burst forth, quickly streaming down his fingertips to leap and splash against the porcelain. It occurred to him then that he might have come a little too close for comfort but that didn't diffuse the rush of silence enveloping his mind.

Peace at last. Ichigo let his head thump back against the wall, eyes closed as life-sustaining liquid continued to mark a path towards the drain. Inside he was ashamed of just how far he'd fallen since defeating Aizen. Cutting himself. Bleeding away the memories that clawed at his subconscious mind. The pain helped him escape. Outwardly he knew his depression didn't show much and for that he was thankful.

Sure he'd become a little more quiet. Withdrawn, even. After after winning the battle to ultimately lose his means of protecting loved ones around him, it could only be expected, right? Victory meant sacrifice and he'd done so without hesitation. Now he felt like his body was starting to break apart under the strain.

All of his comrades...Renji...Rukia...Even Toushiro, were much older than he was. They had been equipped by years of strict training and practice in the art of spiritual warfare. Death, and a lot of it, was something they could handle. After all – they weren't stuck in the mindset of a young teenage boy. He'd sworn never to kill but Zangetsu had wrought death more than once and it nagged at him the way a splinter in his palm might.

It didn't help knowing that his fate was still being decided by Seireitei. With the loss of everything but the most basic spiritual powers came the bitter knowledge that he could no longer be "of use." They didn't know about the continued existence of his inner hollow, but even Shiro's spiritual pressure seemed to be mute beyond the point of detection.

After what felt like decades in his mind, the orangette decided to end his "shower" and climb into bed before the numbness born of his most recent activity wore off. Woozily he got to his feet and turned the spigot. Lukewarm water washed away the residue of his memories, chasing them in happy little swirls down the drain.

He hissed as the spray hit his mangled wrist. Shit. Maybe he had gone too far this time. He sighed in relief as the cuts finally begin to congeal. They were still seeping after he pulled on his pajamas so he took time to carefully wrap them before sliding on a black wristband. Concealing the damage had always been easy. No one thought to question and since it matched his usual style it escaped notice by his family.

Before flicking off the light he surveyed the scene to ensure no trace of his most recent activity was evident. Satisfied that there was none, the room darkened and he collapsed into a dreamless sleep moments after hitting the bed.

School continued to pass in a hazy blur. The sun beat down over Karakura town and thoughts of homework yielded to the approaching summer vacation. Ichigo tried in vain to concentrate on the lecture but with every breeze that ruffled the notebook pages, his thoughts seemed to drift out into the bright blue sky beyond the open window. A bell toned in the distance signaling the end of class.

'What's the point of all this? I've studied so much to catch up, everything is boring to me now. Thank Kami this is the last day. I don't know if I can stand much more of this.'

So consumed was he by his musings that when he finally glanced up, most of the students had already filed out of the room. With a quiet sigh he stood and stretched, biting his lip as old wounds near his wrist twinged. He slid the wristband up to check the scabbed lines; he healed so much slower without assistance from his inner hollow. Satisfied that they hadn't reopened, he covered up the scars At least there were no witnesses. Even his sensei had left the room momentarily.

'Pay attention, Ichigo. You're slipping. If you let your guard down, people will eventually catch on. Think smart. Constant vigilance.'

That last thought stung...Zangetsu's ancient voice rang in his head and the tears welled up almost before he could stop them. No...he wouldn't think of that now. He couldn't. He had to let the past stay in the past. The sacrifice he'd made had ensured the safety of two worlds and stabilized an imbalance that would have otherwise meant catastrophe. He would not regret it. He would move forward. There was nothing else to do.

"Don't look back, Ichigo. Don't look...back. Damn it all to hell!"

Was there no part of him that could escape from himself? Every time he echoed the teachings of his former mentor it felt like being stabbed in the heart. His endurance was wearing thin, nerves fraying under the strain of maintaining an appearance that was pure fallacy. He yearned desperately for a handhold...something to grab on to...something to fill the void created by his ultimate sacrifice...and there was nothing.

Since returning to the human world he'd done his best to interact with his friends while keeping them at a safe distance. But he could only stave off discovery for so long. Someone would notice soon enough. Someone would see through him...and then what? His family was truly all that he wanted to protect...and by protecting them, he was hurting himself in the process.

Ichigo ran his hands through his hair, tugging thoughtfully in an effort to jar himself from his self-induced stupor. When that didn't work he stuck a few fingers beneath the wristband and dragged his nails across the scabs until a few began to bleed. The slow burn of pain freed his mind from torment momentarily. He wiped the blood on his black skinny jean, slung his bag over one shoulder and left, ignoring the sudden chill that made the hairs on the nape of his neck stand up. What good was instinct when he had no reason for it anymore?

What he failed to see were two dark eyes watching him intently from the roof of a nearby building. In a flash of red, black, and white, the figure vanished.

This is end of chapter 1. I hope you all liked it in spite of the shortness. Comments and critiques are appreciated. I haven't quite decided where I want to take this yet, but I have a distinct feeling that this story won't be too long. There are certain aspects I want to focus on with Ichigo – mainly loss and coping. I'll start on the next chapter soon. Until then, Ja ne!