A Bookman's End –

It's just another job… Another pointless war. It will end like all the others, with one chosen survivor. These people are not important to me.

I must recite this chant nightly, forbid I forget the meaning. I must sacrifice… Everything. Sacrifice everything for my dammed accursed occupation.

I am forced to memorize every miniscule trait and tear of sorrow. I cannot place behind any of my previous loses, nor ignore the current.

For them, and them alone, I traitorously begin to sincerely smile. The usual play becomes real, as do my teases and quirks. Am I turning into 'Lavi'? I mustn't; I cannot.

Water is exiled in a Bookman's life, yet I feel tears forming… Why? Why this specific identity? Is my real self most like it? No; my true soul was banished before I was born. It disappeared the moment I was chosen as the next bookman. Perhaps I will lose all self, like the old man.

I am compelled to apologize… To so many people. To Lenalee, and Allen, and Kanda, and all others associated with the Black Order and myself. I need to shout sorry to them, for the pain I surely caused… To my previous names and companions, for abandoning them… To myself, almost. For the one thing I am permitted to forget. The one thing I am required to desert.

Why am I alive? To record, to replace my elder? If so, why am I continuously saved from death? Miranda, who cared only for her fellow exorcists' safety, included me in the equation. She brought upon herself suffering for my sake…

My existence seems to only bring sorrow… Excluding none. While I understand my purpose, I simply cannot comprehend how someone such as I can fulfill it. I can concoct only one solution: vanish from this World.

My eyes fall upon a rusted blade, edge worn by misuse. A perfect end, for one as I. Just another addition to its emotionless list of agony.

I grasp it harshly, cursed to remember its exact proportions; every niche and imperfection. The last being I will ever log into my brain.

Many things rush out as I inject the knife into my chest. To all who knew me, do not mourn any longer. I free you from worry. You will never have to angst for me again. Bookman, I was not fit to your title. I was not meant for any part of my life; a block that refused to fit into its residence.

So selfish, running away like this, I realize as I lay upon the cold ground, unfeeling to all. A single drop rolls down from my eye, finally ending my pathetic life as a future bookman.