With the knife in his hand, Kohaku looked at himself in the mirror. It was exceedingly simple. Two deep cuts vertically down the wrists and he would bleed out in a few seconds. One horizontal across the neck would do the trick as well. He could die quickly, without a second thought. But should he?

That question rang in his head, echoing inside his brain. No question, he was pained with being alive. His fate was in the hands of a somebody who could care less about him. He had no freedom. He was doomed to a life of servitude. Nothing more.

What was keeping him from taking his own life now? Surely it wasn't his debt to Lucille, or an appreciation for life. He had been handed the short end of the stick the entire time.

A face came to mind. A youthful face with a small mischievous smile. A girl who had been caught in infamy at a young age, who grew into a young woman before his eyes.

Celes. Oh god, Celes.

His head ached. Celes, the kind, pretty pianist. Her image spun before his eyes. The young girl was the image of his longing to live. He could feel her velvet skin on his fingertips, her head in his hands, and those small lips against his.

With his cheeks red, Kohaku threw the knife back in the sink in a frustrated huff. He was so close. He was face to face with death in this moment, but he could let himself do it.

Celes. Oh god, Celes.

The ignorant, annoying girl, who laughed at Lucille's taunting. The girl who sat next Gwindel when he thrashed around with night terrors. The girl who sat with him when he was alone in the middle of the night.

Was she the reason he was still sitting on the cold tiles of the bathroom floor, his chest heavy, breath constricted?

He craved the touch of the girl now. He wanted her next to him to comfort him. To run his fingers through her hair. To kiss her.

He stood up, staring at the knife in the sink, that urge to grab it again came back. He was trapped between this suicidal feeling of hopelessness and a girl less than half his age that he was undoubtedly falling... in love with.

Celes. Oh god, Celes.

It was nearly two in the morning now. The hotel the orchestra was staying in was small and falling apart, much like the town around it.

Maybe he didn't want to die here? He could pretend the real reason death wasn't yet imminent due to the fact that if he were to die here, he might miss out on a better place to live out his final moments. That had to be it.

There was no way that he was denying himself death to avoid not spending the time with Celes that he imagined.

The violinist splashed water on his face, trying to wake himself up from such a dazed state. He sigh at the ugly reflection staring back at him. The scar, the dark eyes, the unruly hair. He was a mess.

She could love this face, couldn't she? Somebody could. He didn't, and most of those involved with his life didn't, but at least Celes could, right?

Another terrifying thought came. What if she couldn't love this face. If she couldn't love his body or mind. Was he too horrible to spark her interest.

On impulse, he smashed the mirror with his hand, shattering it, and sending shards of glass into his hand.

He stumbled backwards, hitting the wall, and crashing to the floor again.

He grabbed his wrist, the pain welling in his bleeding fist. He couldn't stop himself.

He start crying. The tears came from his eyes too quickly to stop them. He hadn't done this in a long, long time.

He was too ugly, in physical appearance and mind, for Celes, but he still couldn't bring that knife to his wrists.

Celes. Oh god, Celes.

Celes. Oh god, Celes.

Celes. Oh god, Celes.

Celes. Celes. Celes.