Disclaimers: I do not own gundam wing.. I do not own gundam wing, I do not own gundam wing, I do not own gundam wing. …… I .. do .. own gundam wing! Ha! *gets poked by a muse* huh?? Aww man… just a dream.. I do not own gundam wing. (but I –do- own fundam wing . uhhh.. nu?)

Warnings: self mutalation, angst, self bondage, angst, language! Angst!! Possible suicide attempts. Uhmmm watch out for a random flying typo. They happen.

Pairings: 2x4 (forever!!!) and there might be hints or scenes of 1x3 I don't know yet..

This is the first fic I've uploaded.. tell me if I did anything wrong please!!!! Also tell me if something doesn't make sense or if I really spelled something wrong. Please. Ok read and review and be nice!! Flames welcomed. (I think I titled this Burning for a reason ^.~) tell me what you think. Please. Please!!!!



Here I was again, the same old mess in the same situation.

Every –fucking- night I end up like this and I don't know why.

      It's getting really old.

      Sitting on the floor of my room, knees to my chest arms

wrapped around them tightly. I noticed, in these nights, you're

grip

tightens when you think about stuff that should make you angry or sad

or depressed or whatever the hell they want to call it today. My arms

were wrapped around my knees for dear life at this point. My chin

resting on my knees, staring off into nothing.

      Nothing. The story of my life. A ballroom dance where every

nothing gathers and end up in an all out battle of torment and anger

fighting endlessly. Till I give in. till I end up like this.

      I sit here and think to myself as if I was actually telling

someone all this.. maybe I am, maybe I'm trying to explain to

myself

what the hell I'm doing. Maybe I'm trying to explain to my

body, as a

form of apology. Maybe I'm just nuts.

I can't even feel the pain in my arms anymore. It's there, I

know it

is on some subconscious level. Conscious though, that evilness that

learned to take my life and rip it to a million fucking pieces of

already broken parts, conscious wins the battle and blocks out the

pain.

      I cant feel anything actually, I'm vaguely aware of the blood

that has dripped off my arms onto the floor, temporarily staining it

red. I don't care. I don't care if the phone rings, I

don't care if

someone knocks on the door, and I don't care if the fucking FBI

prances in here and arrests me for eating ice cream on the sidewalk.

I don't care if I die.

      And this is me in a good mood. Slashing parts of my arm up

and just sitting staring endlessly not giving a damn about anything

is a good day. It's a weekend, nothing happened. Nothing ever

happens.

      Except my thoughts. They always manage to hunt me down and

beat me till I submiss to them, let them beat me and bruise me and

tell me how worthless I am. I let them screw my life up, fuck my arms

and legs up. Then I let them lock me up.

      Consciousness is a game now, I never know when I'm really

awake. Sure, I know when I'm literally awake, but there are

different

levels of consciousness. I hit a shallow one, my thoughts locked me

up, shut everything down, I'm at a perfect state of calm, except

how

fucking tense I am. Perfectly calm on the outside, blinking every

couple of minutes when my eyes begin to burn, no other movement. Not

shaking, not cringing at the supposed pain lacing through my arms,

not crying because of how fucked up I am. Perfectly numb.

      Except for my thoughts, they race, run as fast as they can,

dragging what's left of my soul behind them.

      I lose the same battle everynight to my thoughts.

      My fists clench. I loose the same –fucking- battle every –

fucking- night. I'm so weak. I'm useless! I'm a piece of

trash that

should just be sent to burn in the sun. I'm a fuck-up.

      I lose the same battle, lose to my thoughts, and let them

take me and brake me. And.. and I enjoy every damn moment of it.

      This part, right here, this is where it gets bad.. this is

where I always snap.. everynight.

      No more am I perfectly numb, or calm. No more…

      My fist clench so tight my nails dig into the palms of my

hands, as I feel my face take on an statement that would be

considered and understatement to call it hate or anger.

      I punch the floor with both hands, letting some sort of

strangled growl out.

      I punch the floor again before holding my head in my hands

and scream. I scream long and hard until all the air in my lungs is

empty and my voice is just a mere strangle that ends in a pitiful

gasp.

      I sit there with my head in my hands gasping for about a

minute until I abruptly slam my back and my head against the wall

with a satisfying thud, over and over, violently slamming my head

into the wall. Of course, never hard enough to actually knock myself

out. I Stop ramming myself into the wall and begin to punch my thighs

with my fists growling the whole time.

      I stop punching myself and just grab onto my knees, digging

my nails into them through the material of my pants, tightly closing

my eyes. The only noise I can make is a semi-strangled groan that

sounds more like a dying animal.

      My hands forcefully shoot up to hold my head again, and I

shake me head, my body trembling with anger. Anger at nothing. Just

raw, pure anger.

      I barely notice I'm rocking back and forth as I move my hands

to my shoulders, crisscrossing them across my chest, trembling

because every muscle in my body is tensed.

      I drag my hands down across my shoulders, digging my nails in

my skin hard but not breaking the skin. Then a sudden sick

inspiration dawned upon me. I Stopped shaking and with a newfound

focus got on my knees and started searching the floor.

      Then I found it. My razor, my tiny silvery friend. I picked

it up and sat against the wall again staring at the razor, transfixed

by it for what seemed like hours but was merely a minute.

      I glared at the razor and winced inwardly as I put it to my

back around the area where my nails had scratched. I hold the razor

against my bare back without moving it.

      "Stop it…" I whisper helplessly to myself.

      "Stop it. Stop it… Stop it!" I begin to chat..

continuing my

chant I drag the razor across my skin slowly, still chanting.     

      "Stop It.. Stop It.. this is stupid!" despite what I'm

telling myself to do, I trace another line with the razor below the

first one, this time faster.

      "Stop it!!!!" I nearly scream, right before tracing another

line right below, quicker and deeper.

      "Stop it!" I say at the exact same time I make another cut.

      Over and over, telling myself to stop the exact same time I

drag that thin blade into my skin, faster and deeper. My eyes are

closed, and I'm nearly screaming for myself to stop, but at the

same

time my hand keeps moving the razor across the flesh on my back.  I

Stop once I have a row of cuts all bleeding pretty badly from near

the top of my shoulder to almost my waist, all less then a centimeter

apart, some overlapping.

      I sigh defeatedly as I look at my hand holding the razor, the

razor and my hand alike are both covered in blood and I can feel as a

flow of red life flows from my shoulder to my waist, staining my

pants along with the floor.

      I can't cry, I never have. Physical pain doesn't get me to

cry easily and at this point neither does emotional.

      I look at my hand again, transfixed by the blood on it. Then

I drop the razor and punch the floor with my bloodied hand, not as

hard as before.

      "You're a monster, Quatre… A monster."



Yay . I have finished a chapter. R&R and make me and my camels happy!