I don't own Tokio Hotel. Only the plot is mine.

The door of the hotel suite slammed shut and Bill was sitting on the edge of the bed, alone. What happened a few moments left him speechless and was intense.

The huge quarrel began when Tom found a luminous orange penknife in the bathroom. There was no trace of blood on it. Bill must have wiped it off, he thought angrily to himself. He then exited the bathroom.

"You told me you won't do it." Tom said furiously.

Bill looked up.

"What?" He asked, confused.

Tom held up the penknife in his hand.

"Shit." The other mumbled under his breath.

"Why, Bill? Are you unhappy about something?" Tom asked. Bill promised him that he would stop this wrist-slitting hysteria.

The younger twin looked at his feet and shook his head; a sign of guilt.

Tom grabbed his brother's wrist and rolled up the long sleeves of the shirt. "What are you doing? Let go!" Bill shouted, squirming. His wrist revealed a row of red scars, some still fresh. Thin red lines all in a neat row. Some were almost invisible. Bill managed to release his hand from the other twin's grasp.

"Are you crazy? That hurt!" He shouted.

Tom sniggered.

"Hurt? Do you know what is hurt?" He screamed, punching his fist into the mirror on the wall. After a fierce, tinkling crash, cracks appeared on the mirror and Tom's knuckles were bleeding.

Bill remained silent.

"Your promise, Bill. You broke it. That hurt. It hurt to know that your twin lied to you."

Tears rolled down the cheeks of the guilty twin.

"I just can't help it, okay? I'm sorry." Bill explained, trying to grab hold of his brother's wrist. But the older twin was fast, he dodged the grasp.

"You apologized the last time and I accepted it. Now you want me to accept it again?" Tom said.

"You're my brother! You're supposed to help me! Not reprimand me!"

Tom's knuckles were still bleeding. The drops of blood landed on the carpeted floor, staining it red. "I did. I helped you. And you promised. I tried. You are the one who's not helping. You're not helping yourself." He said calmly. He didn't want to quarrel anymore. He was emotionally strained. He proceeded to the door.

"You gave up on yourself. What else can I do, Bill?" He finished his last sentence then without looking back, Tom left the suite.

Bill buried his face into his hands, letting out soft sobs, which grew louder and louder. Soon, his sobs became cries. Cries of help, which unleashed tears of anger and disappointment. He looked to his side, there laid the bright orange penknife, sitting quietly on it's own. With his hand shaking, he grabbed it and slid the blade up.

"I'm sorry." He whispered.