Disclaimer: All characters and locations belong to their respective owners. The song "Maybe" is sung and belongs to The Ink Spots, Dinah Shores, Bobby Byrne, Perry Como and Eddie Fisher, etc.

A/N: This idea occurred to me while I was watching Higurashi a couple months ago, only the original setting revolved more around canon. What also inspired this was listening to the old tunes featured in Fallout 3. Inspiration comes in the most lyrical, and bizarre, places.

Also, a heads-up before you read: this contains character death of a suicidal fashion. If this makes you feel uncomfortable, then please don't continue. This was written with the idea of catharsis in mind and nothing more.

Maybe….

"In my end is my beginning."
- Jean de la Fontaine

Now is the time to atone for your sins.

All alone in your room, the music blasts through the stereo speakers. No one comes to tell you to turn it down. No one comes to yell and scream and hurl insults at you. The door remains shut, confining you to a prison detached from space and time.

You don't care.

A song starts playing. It's a North American song from way back when, sung by some band called The Ink Spots. At least you think so; you're not paying much attention to the station.

You pull open a drawer and dig out a small orange bottle.

In the background, a woman's gentle croon rattles the air.

"May~be…you'll~ think of me….
When you~ are all~ alone."

The label reads as such in stark black print:

SHION SONOZAKI

DIAZEPAM 10MG TABLETS
TAKE ONE (1) TABLET EVERY NIGHT

QTY 30
1 REFILL(S) BEFORE 12/01/11

You pop open the safety cap and peer inside. The bottle is more than halfway full.

You breathe a soft exhale from your lips. It should just be enough.

"Maybe the one who~ is waiting for you~ will prove untrue….
Then what will you~ do?"

Will they care if they notice? Will they change if they turn the other way? Will They ever understand when all is said and done?

You wish it were that simple. You wish everything in the world could be simple.

Hold out your left hand. Tilt the bottle and watch the contents spill into your palm. They're gathered in a pile— an anthill for the color-blind and hopeless junkie, a mound of fresh snow crusted in ice, dusty pieces of a broken mirror.

In all your years of existence, it's the most beautiful thing you've ever seen. No amount of rain or sunshine can compare to this.

"Maybe~ you'll sit and sigh, wishing~ that I were near.
Then maybe you'll ask me to come back again~
And maybe I'll say "Maybe."

Set the bottle on the counter top. Clench the pills. Walk over to the nightstand by your bed. Your body rings pleasantly to the bass emanating within, heartstrings metaphorically pulled as the woman holds the notes.

Oh, serenity! Oh, grace! Why were you taken from me?

A pair of dull blue eyes gazes back at you from the glass pitcher. You take it by the handle in your free hand and, slowly, carefully, lift it toward your face. The liquid reeks strongly of alcohol. Tentatively take a sip. You manage to swallow it down before you sputter and cough. You grimace. It tastes strong and bittersweet, just like the days and nights you endure in the presence of company and by yourself.

Where have those bygone halcyon days gone?

Where are the happy memories?

Stare out the bay window occupying the wall. The sky is at its most bluest, and there's not a cloud in the sky. There are a couple of birds perched on the power lines. No one is outside. You don't care to know what's going on. Not anymore. After all, the world moves on and so does its people.

What is one person to a billion others living and dying and suffering all at once?

What is one person to a family you've been estranged from for as long as you can remember?

…What is one person to those people you love more precious than gold?

"May~be… you'll~ think of me.
When you are all~ alone."

Your throat swells, but you choke it down at the last second and it comes out as a pained, strangled sob. You can do this. You have to. Distinguishing oneself is part of being a Sonozaki. They won't cry. They won't mourn. They won't care. You don't care anymore.

You can do this.

Open your left hand and count the tablets. There are seventeen…seventeen little snowflakes that refuse to melt. They feel clammy, and threads of tinted blue paint your fingertips. You don't bother to wipe it off.

"Maybe the one~ who is waiting for you~ will prove untrue.
Then~ what~ will I do?"

You open your mouth and place four tabs on your tongue. It's dry, but a quick swig from the pitcher cures it. Tilt your head back and swallow. Gasp for air and cough again. Regain control and breathe heavily, loudly. You can do this.

Take another four, pop them in, wash them down.

"Maybe~ you'll~ sit and sigh wishing that I were near.
Then~ maybe you'll ask me to come back again~

Take the final nine, pop them in, wash them down. Drain the pitcher clean. Put it back on the counter and stare at it.

Gods, are you tired. You fight to keep your eyes open, but they're so heavy. No, it's not just your eyes – it's your head. It's as if someone tied a five-pound dumbbell to your skull. But that's alright. Give it time and soon it will all be over.

Move toward the bay window, turn around, and sit down. Draw your knees to your chest and lay your forehead against them. Close your eyes and breathe deep—

"And~ maybe I'll say "Maybe."

Ah, that voice; that beautiful, beautiful voice. If only life could be as beautiful as that steady voice….

In the end, it doesn't really matter. It's what the family's always sought for, always hoped for, when there was nothing left to pin the blame on. Maybe if she hadn't been born, if she had been born to a different family or a different couple or a different time of day and month and year, this wouldn't have happened. Maybe…if they had just stopped and listened and speak on equal wavelengths…maybe she wouldn't have done it.

Maybe she would still be here, back propped against the headboard, chin bobbing and eyes half-shut, falling asleep to the tender vocals that consisted of the Great American Songbook.

Shion loved that era.

Now her room is silent and empty.

"It isn't your fault," Satoshi tells Mion, his hand placed (un)comfortably on her shoulder. They sit on the edge of the bed, engulfed in silver-blue moonlight streaming through the black-blue darkness. Mion continues to stare at the floor – past the floor – where in the center of the beam a CD and its case lay broken and scratched and toss their reflections upon the tiles.

"It isn't your fault," he repeats, "and it isn't mine. Your only shame is to be ashamed of what they are."

"I know," she forces out tightly, digging her nails into the fabric of her trousers. "I know. It's just…I shouldn't have yelled at her. If I had just reined my temper in—!"

"Things were rough, Mion. They were rough for all of us."

"It doesn't change a thing! It doesn't change the fact that she's gone and we had a part in it!"

"That's not true! You knew what she was going through. You knew everything that was going on even when she had her back turned and tried to cover it up. You told me, told Satoko, told Rena and Rika and Keiichi."

"I didn't do anything! I didn't do a damn thing for her!"

"You did!"

"I didn't do what a big sister is supposed to do for her little sister! I did nothing! I just watched and waited for her to crumble!"

"You did everything you could!" Satoshi puts his free hand on her other shoulder and turns her around and their eyes pierce a void they thought was impenetrable. "You did what you thought was right. You did what any sibling had to do." A pause, then: "You did nothing wrong."

"Satoshi," her voice cracks. She blinks, and tears fall freely down round porcelain cheeks.

"It wasn't your fault," he says her, and he pulls the girl close and wraps his arms around her, where Mion buries her face in the crook of his neck and sobs openly and unashamedly. "It's not your fault."

"I just wished," she hiccups and sniffs harshly, "I could've apologized…for everything I'd done to her. For ever hurting her."

Satoshi's violet gaze softens, and pain pinches at his brow. "I know, Mion. That chance is gone, and so is mine." He closes his eyes and exhales softly. "If only I had said goodbye…." And they continued to hold each other for a long time.

All around them the world moves on and so does its people, but for some they refuse to move with it. To them, that was what mattered most.