DISCLAIMER: I do not own That 70s Show.

A/N: Just babbly nonsense I randomly came up with. Hyde's POV.

The basement is damp tonight. It smells of dust and mold and stale smoke from the circle. There are no windows in my lovely abode, just glinting metal and chilly plaster.

Led Zeppelin floats into my room and dances around my body, telling me to sing those sad lyrics. The notes flow through me, daring to be opposed. I slowly sway, my drunken voice quietly whispering the words I knew so well.

It is so dark. The darkness snuffs out my soul, the soul that had glowed bright for so long. If there was a moon out in the night, gleaming in the shadows, I would not know it. I tried to imagine one, with my eyes shut tight, still swaying to those familiar notes, but I can't.

It is so hard to see the light, the hope, the happiness. I only feel the cold. I see nothing but black and apparitions of my past.

As the beat gets faster I whip off my sunglasses and play air drums against the wall. I attempt to bang so hard on my imaginary drums as to beat out my pain.

A sigh escapes my lips as the song ends. Depression overwhelms me once again. I desperately search for my hidden stash. Leo had hooked me up not too long ago; I knew I should have it somewhere.

I start to sweat as my searching becomes futile. Pillows and blankets strewn haphazardly on the floor, any meager items I had lay forgotten, my cot tipped on its side. Damnit! Where is it!

Kelso.

I knew I should never have told him where I hid my stash.

I needed something, anything to get rid of the pain. Grabbing my pillow from the floor, I screamed into it until there was no more air in my lungs. My body forced me to withdraw the pillow and breathe the musky, damp air once again.

I watch as my hand reaches for my Swiss army knife. It grasps it firmly, confidently. I observe as I run the icy steel across the back of my hand, then over the veins in my wrist. A simple flick of my fingers and it can all be over. I imagine the blood making trails down my palm and fingertips, red drops falling lightly onto the Forman's floor.

I wonder if anyone would care. I think of the circle, seeing them all laughing maniacally at my death. My memory nothing more than a joke. Poor orphan boy, finally deciding to do everyone a favor and off himself. Its not like me being alive did anyone any good. Everyone knew I was just pretending, planting myself in the Forman's family, letting Mrs. Forman baby me and cook for me, living in their house, taking advantage of them.

My mantra plays in my head. I don't need anybody. I don't need anything.

The knife travels up my arm so it rests underneath the material of my t-shirt. I gasp as I let the point cut into the skin on my bicep. For some reason, all I can think about is how I would hide the blood stains on my shirt from Mrs. Forman.

I force myself to go on, though. I wince as the blade moves down my arm, so close to those vulnerable veins that gave me life, never quite touching them. A huge gash is left in its wake, blood now pouring out.

Shuffled footsteps are coming closer and closer. It feels like they're in a separate place, far away from me. I do not acknowledge it until my door whooshes open and light floods in.

I squint into the figure.

Eric.

I feel a hand slap away my precious knife. Muttered oh my Gods and What the Hells.

All I can think to do is laugh. So that's what I do. I laugh and laugh and laugh at his shocked face, at the blood covering my arm, at the blade glinting at me with its red tip, mocking me.

Whoops. Forman looks angry. I stop laughing and close my eyes, starting to feel a little bit woozy, a mixture of about a billion beers and loss of blood (how much blood did I lose?)

I open my eyes to see a bare-chested Eric tying his shirt around my arm. He's saying that he's going to get his mom, that she's a nurse and will know what to do. I tell him that I'm fine, and what the hell was he looking at me like that for, was poor baby Eric afraid of a little blood.

A mixture of pity and something else cross his features. Fear. Fear is flashing in his eyes. What is he so afraid of? Me? I wasn't going to hurt him. I probably couldn't with how drunk and weak I was, anyway.

He starts for the door, to go run to mommy, but I grab his arm. He shoves me back, trying to get out the door, but I tackle him before he can leave. Panic courses through my body. It seemed so unreal before, but now I'm trying as hard as I can to keep this quiet. Nobody can know my weaknesses.

I feel him squirming frantically underneath me. He's screaming at me. It's all I can do to keep him down with all his flailing limbs. His voice is rising, and I can hear the tears that were about to come. He's pleading with me. I cover his mouth with my hand. I realize too late that there was still blood on it. He is noticeably crying now and I feel my heart breaking. A few of my own tears mix with his on the concrete floor.

My grip loosens slowly. I didn't mean to do it, but my body was so far spent. I shudder and try to calm my rapid breaths. Salty tears make their way down my cheeks, I feel like I will never be able to stop them, however desperately I try.

Eric gets up off the floor and wipes his own tears away. He looks so depressing, in my freezing little closet, shivering because he gave up his pajama shirt for me. I sob into his bare shoulder as he hugs me, whispering that it will all be okay.

Eventually he gets me to calm down. Only traces of tears remain, and I try to breathe deeply. He strokes my face and I think of how pathetic I've become. Needing to be consoled by Forman. I had to beat someone up in the worst way, gain back some pride. Not right now, though, maybe tomorrow. I let out a deep breath against Eric's chest.

He tucks me into bed, and I would laugh if it weren't so embarrassing. I realize that he's just going to go get his mom but I stopped caring. I feel a cool hand on my face, and he runs his hand over my forehead and through my hair. He kisses my cheek and runs out the door.

I remind myself to punch him for that in the morning.

A/N: Tell me what you think, please. God, I feel like I copied all of this. Who knows, maybe I did. I truly don't know whether or not there is an original thought in my head. God, that scares me to death. What was I talking about? Oh, right. Review and you will make me happy.