Scaramouche sat on the floor, the darkness of his room closing around him. The occasional flash of lightning lit up the large, full-length windows he was facing. His head was tipped back, touching the back of the wall while his body laid slumped against the cold plaster. It was quiet. Too quiet. It was so quiet things were too loud.

His mind drifted to different things. Work, school, his parents, life. It all walked across his mind like masses on a street. School was overbearing and exhausting. His father was never home, and when he was the air felt suffocating. His mother expected unnatural skills from him, and when those requirements weren't met, he was neglected. Life was disastrous, draining, barely worth it...

Slowly, his head dipped down, the muscles in his neck going limp. He stared blankly at his hands, dull and worn from constant studying. They rested loosely in his lap, barely moving. In his mind, the same question rang out in his ears. Is it really worth it?

Breathing got a little harder now. He could feel the familiar sting of tears at the corner of his eyes. It's as if someone was wrapping their hands around his neck, choking and depriving him of what he carved so badly.

He wants to be loved. To be taken care of. To know that it's okay to not be what others want him to be. As those thoughts ran in his head, his mind drifted to an image of you smiling at him. He didn't know why. It didn't matter, anyways. It didn't matter what the two of you where. He'd already ruined it.

A choked sob came from his mouth at that. Why was he so distraught over you? You were too perfect and he was too broken. You were too right and he was too wrong. Convincing himself was useless, for there were now tears falling down his eyes as he remembered how he lost you.

Slowly, he stood up. He didn't know what made him stand up, but it was the same thing that was taking him down the stairs of his parents mansion, grabbing the keys to the car, and walking out the door. He needed to see you, to apologize, to—