NOTE TO READER: This is an alternate version of "It All Sunk In". If you have read the original, then keep in mind the first 5 paragraphs—more like an introduction—are actually the same. For those of you that haven't read it, go ahead and read it all, but I want to start with the same base, just different methods. Have your fun here; I had a good amount of fun writing it!

"God damn it, she's killing me!" he screamed. It pierced the empty halls of the castle, burning through the soft ice that it was composed of. It hurt, and if hurt him, it hurt everyone, because his pain was everyone else's too.

"My lord Ryuma, it would be easier if you gave up, it wouldn't be so painful," Unga said in response. She had heard this for days, for as long as he had been pursuing her. She was sick of his constant depression and waited for the same answer he always gave her.

"No! I couldn't! I'm not weak like that," Ryuma said miserably. The truth was, he was weak like that, but he had to prove a point. A point he could withstand anything, a point the human beast could not mock him, could not break him down. "I'll…I'll be in my room. Don't disturb me," he snarled. He was upset, confused, depressed, anything love could ever make you if you knew you weren't loved back. And one thing one for certain: no one loved Ryuma back.

He slammed the door to his familiar room, dark and lit with a few candles on the walls like miniature chandeliers. His bed was the traditional four-poster bed, but instead of his room adorned in blue and icy colors like everyone would expect, him room was a solid black. Almost everything was black, and what wasn't black was gold. It was a rusty gold though, for he refused everything and anything resembling a cheerful ambiance. His room seemed to be a black abyss, with only his bed, a black and gold vanity, and a black and gold desk with things to write with on it. And everywhere, on the floors, on the desk, even on the walls and insides of the door were poems. They did not cover up all the black paint on the wall, but they covered most of it, shrouding the room in a morbid, gothic writing, all written by Ryuma himself. No one knew this, any of it, of the black room, of the candles or of the poems, for no one had ever gone into Ryuma's room ever before except for him.

Now as usual, after he finished ranting about Yakumo, his real honest feelings still bottled up inside, he walked towards another door and stepped into his bathroom, just a basic white bathroom covered in filth, like a white hospital bathroom that has been worn down by years of service. He sat down on the stool in front of his mirror and, as with as much disdain as ever, looked at himself. His flawless face, usually bright and full of spark and finesse, now appeared groggy and depressed, as did the rest of him. The circles under his eyes never went away, no matter how much eye liner he put on after his sleepless nights.

And this is where it sinks in. He reached out gently to the shape in the mirror and snapped his hand back ever so softly, a ghost even within himself. He sat his head in his hands and felt ice water drip emotionlessly down his face. He was wearing so much makeup it appeared as black paint, making a cold, sloppy mess all over his fair cheeks. God, was he tired. It seemed like everything was just getting slower every day, every moment was slowing down until he became so exhausted he couldn't even stand. So afraid, yet so bold.

…But would it work? Would it make the time go faster; would it speed by so that every hour would feel like a minute? Or would it slow everything down, even slower than before? It would stop his heart and stop the time and stop everything. Stop everything before it all sunk in.

He stood up abruptly. He would do it. Who cares if time sped up or slowed down? He wouldn't care anymore. Sh, it'll all be over soon enough. Just relax. He took his shaky hands and took off everything he was wearing. Clothes sprawled on the floor, he looked at himself one last time, naked; cold; painless. His figure was scrawny and not one that someone of his status would have. He had always been a runt, never having any muscles or anything, just bare ribs and bones piercing through the vaporous, translucent skin. But now he was not the runt; he was just plain pathetic. He had been starving himself for weeks for no reason. Maybe it was just to make this moment all the more breathtaking.

He could barely move his legs. When he did, he nearly fell over, but he quickly reassured himself he could just get back up. He stumbled all the way over to his bathtub, collapsing in it and curling up in a little ball. It was almost a flawless white, so when he coughed and saw this red substance soil it ever so easily, he became intrigued. He sat up and wiped his mouth, smiling contently. He knew what he wanted to do. And he would; he did. He felt around for a compartment and opened it suddenly, ripping out a very sharp blade and piercing every possible part of his skin with it. It came to a pause—what he didn't want—because faster was out of the question. Completely. But something had to go faster. Something, anything, dear God anything.

And so he lay down, in his little ball once again, knees tucked up to his chest, observing as the levels of Death rose around him. Soon he was almost completely engulfed in a bath of his own precious substance, the thing he called Life, the thing called blood.

Just floating in an ecstasy.

And even though he could never find love,

And love could never find him,

It all sunk in.

And he was happy again.

Gasp.

It All Sunk In 2 by ~RyumasBride

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