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A/N: This is my first fic so if it totally stinks let me know so I can quit while I'm ahead:) Thanks to everyone on Rentfic101 who encouraged me to post this

Tired
by Karen Michelle

I'm tired. Tired of getting hurt. Tired of hurting the people I love. Tired of this feeling of churning emptiness in my stomach. Tired of being left. Tired of leaving. I'm just so freakin' tired.
I sit Indian style on my folding table in the middle of this bare empty cold suffocating room wondering when it stopped feeling like the safe home I used to know. My eyes search the walls. I want to rip away those layers of loneliness anger sadness pain to reveal the love laughter happiness family that I know used to be there.
Maybe if I close my eyes tight enough, when I open them she'll be back. Mimi. Beautiful mysterious carefree Mimi. I'm desperate enough to try it. It doesn't work. She's still gone. I close them again, this time trying to remember her face. Her eyes are the first to appear. Two orbs of chocolate fire. Then her brown wild curls and wide white smile. God she was beautiful. But now she's gone and I have nothing left. Nothing left but the loneliness that surrounds me; crushes me, squeezing out all but the choking emptiness, leaving me numb and broken.
Remember that poem? The one that says "'tis better to have loved and lost, than never to have loved at all." I used to believe that. But then I lost her and this emptiness that fills me hurts so bad, that I don't know if I can anymore.
My eyes wander around the room until they fall on the old dust covered guitar case in the corner and I know my salvation is in that case. I slowly leave my place on the table and approach my escape. I lower myself to the cold floor, blow the dust away, and with shaking needy hands, open the case. I feel like I should be crying, but my tears have been squeezed out along with all of my emotion.
I run my swollen sweating fingers across the nylon strings and chipped scratched battered wood. The instrument feels heavy in my weak arms as I lift it out of the home it hasn't left for months. That's when I see it. The only thing that can save me. I set aside the guitar and close my hand around the small plastic bag full of white powder. My hand frantically shuffles through all of the pages of chords and notes and lyrics, feeling for the spoon I know has to be here somewhere. Then I feel it, take a deep, relaxing breath, and fill the spoon with the powder.
My heart is pounding. So is my head. I need this. I pull a lighter out of my pocket and flick it on, watching the flame dance wildly underneath the spoon. The powder turns to liquid at a pace that is painfully slow, and I wait in impatient anticipation. *Crap.* I hear the door downstairs open slowly. *I need to hurry.* I try to steady my trembling hands as I pick up the syringe that lays so invitingly in the guitar case, and empty the spoon into it. The footsteps grow louder and I know that it's him, and he's going to catch me, and question me, and tell me he trusted me, but right now I'm being choked to death by loneliness, and I don't care about him.
I feel the welcome pinch as I insert the needle into my arm, then, taking a deep breath, push the sweet poison into my veins. There. I did it. He can't stop me now. The damage is already done. I lean back against the wall as I let the warmth mix with my blood and flood out the emptiness.
The door opens. He looks at me with terror in his blue eyes. I look at him with fire in mine. He looks at his syringe in my arm and I watch the terror turn to rage. "Mark! What the heck were you thinking?"