.notes. Please excuse the vast crackiness of this fic. :D

On another note, I might recommend reading this aloud in your deepest, lowest, most monotonous voice, with an assortment of emo music in the background.

Don't take this seriously, please. Please.

.warnings. This is completely over-the-top. You've been warned.

.disclaimer. I don't own the Mentalist. The reality of it pains me.

.a sad, sad day of endless & eternal angst.

You sit in the attic; the attic is cold. It is cold and dark and damp as death and depravity. It gnaws into you, scathing, bitter, hard; you hate it. Your hatred of the dark is as intense as your self-hatred. Would that you could go and sit downstairs, downstairs in the sun.

In the light.

But no, you will sit here; you will sit here, in the dark, so that you do not have to punish yourself in other ways.

The sun is too achingly bright downstairs.

The cup of tea sitting next to you is cold and bitter, like your soul. You refuse to sweeten it. But you drink it, grimacing. The grimace is tight and restrained. You must not ever show how you really feel. It must hide within you. Forever. And ever.

Your hand, shaking with the pain from within, suddenly slips, and tea splashes over your suit. It doesn't matter. You are wearing your black suit today, and nothing can stain it. Not even your heart which bleeds blackness beneath it.

Outside, the sky is displeasing grey; but can grey be pleasing? You do not know. All you can do is associate the greyness with sadness and sickness and your own woe. It is as dreary and dank as the emptiness within you.

The window is shut, and rain beats upon it harshly.

But, you think, it is not the window that needs to be punished.

With a start, you sit up, slowly making your way to the wall, unlatching the window, pushing open the thin glass panes. Now, the rain is falling upon you, calling, calling. But you cannot answer. You do not even know what they are asking.

As the rain drops through the window and onto the floor, you watch with mute fascination. Don't do that, you think. Don't come near. Why should anything want to be so near to you? It will only end in pain.

It always ends in pain.

Again, you shut the window. The rain calls.

This time, you do not listen.

Your teacup is now empty, sitting on its saucer on the floor. With tremendous, painful effort, you move to sit next to it. The floor is cold, like your soul. Your teacup is empty, like you. You are the same. Slowly, slowly, you tip the cup on its side so that it is sideways, like you.

To find a kindred spirit, here on the floor, brings no relief. The stifling, heavy, overpowering sadness that comes with this realization renders you comatose for several hours.

It is now dark.

Someone knocks. You rouse with the sound. Who is there?

"Jane?" she calls from beyond the door. But she cannot come in. The door is locked, locked like your heart made of glass and ready to shatter. That is called heartache. Your soul bleeds crimson regret.

You stand and make your way to the door. Every step is horrible, painful, terrifying, like needles working their way through your flesh. But you do not mind. You know that it is just punishment.

You find solace in the rhythm of your footsteps as they thud on the floor. It is a weak comfort.

You slide the door open. It is heavy and cold.

"Jane?" she repeats. The gaze she sends you is calculating, but confused. Your chest tightens with the intensity of your emotions. You feel as though you may break.

"Yes," you say, a whisper. It is so hard to speak.

"Are you alright?" she asks. You watch, hoping fervently that she comes no nearer; it would be too painful were the sun to die in this very room.

You are not alright. You are wearing your black suit. She has not noticed. She has never even realized what that means. But you answer, slowly, weakly, agonizingly, "Yes."

She frowns, considering. Don't come in, you implore with your whole being. It is far too cold in here. "Come downstairs," she says.

But you cannot. The darkness would move downstairs with you, and that is something you will not tolerate. No, this is a prison meant for you; you refuse to share it. You cannot share it. "No," you say, hating yourself for how tonelessly bitter you sound. And you want to say, It's not you, but the words do not come.

They will not come.

The truth causes a new and angry fountain of resentment to bubble within you.

She cocks her head at you, thinking, considering the implications, finally conceding. With a quick, sharp nod, she backs away and leaves you alone.

She has pushed you away. Again.

You are alone. Again.

But you do not go. You will not go. You cannot go.

The room seems darker now, without the sun to brighten it. It seems darker than ever before, as though the darkness were pushing down, pushing in with enormous pressure. It is almost too much to take.

With a low sound, you crouch down once again next to your cup, which has somehow righted itself, and begin weeping.

You remember the days when you first met; they were bright, glorious. You remember. You remember how you sat in her office just to watch the rays of the sun filter in through the window at precisely the right angles to lighten her features. You remember how you fought like children to hide the reality of your true feelings.

Those days are gone now, locked away. They can never be retrieved. Never again.

You determine that today is a sad, sad day.

The rain falls harder.

Your tears fall harder.

It is a dark day.

You look down. Your teacup has been refilled with your tears.

Exhausted and dehydrated, you replenish yourself with the contents of the cup.

Your tears taste salty, but you drink them. You deserve it, you tell yourself. The feeling of liquid moving down your throat is akin to poison; you wish it were poison. If it had at least been poison, you may have been able to leave this mortal plane for good.

You slide to the floor under the weight of the enormity of your emotions.

Through half-lidded eyes, you once again begin to contemplate the window.

The window. Outside, the rain still pours, weeping alongside you.

It is dark. Like tea.

And your suit.

And your soul.

It would be so easy, you think.

Again, you stand and move to the wall, every step a thousand kilometres from the last. You unlatch the window and push it open. You move your upper body out into the moonlight.

You can do this. You can let go and lose yourself to the darkness. Yes, they would regret, deeply regret, and wonder what they'd done wrong, so innocent and yet so guilty. But they would grow, get over it gradually; it would be so much better in the long term.

You prepare to jump, but she is calling, a sense-memory. Come downstairs.

You turn to face the door, though you know it is locked. She is not there. She is gone, has been gone the whole time. But somehow, you want to step into the sun one last time.

It's too painful to think about.

But you can hear her calling, imploring, pleading.

No, you think.

You back away from the window. Not tonight.

No, you will listen for one more night.

the end

.a/n. I have no words to explain this.