A/N so yeah, this isn't my normal writing style, more dark and depressed than the usual fluff I seem to write. But for a few reasons, which I wont divulge, I feel there is no better time to write this story.

Anyways, since this isn't what I normally write for, I hope to receive all the support I can get, and any constructive criticism will be welcomed. Also note, that while his motivations may not be as clear as they should be, I hope that the following chapters will explain how each person has influenced what he has become.


Not for the first time in his life, Apollo had fallen into a deep depression. Recently, people seemed to forget who he was, life had moved far too fast for him, and when he wanted people, they were never there.

Trucy and Phoenix were never around, Trucy was out travelling across the city every night, performing fantastic illusions taught to her by her uncle. Magic, or rather, her magic, had become a lot more high-class since she turned sixteen. Then of course, there was that new man in her life. Apollo didn't care much for the snotty arrogant teenager she had decided to date. But he was not entitled to comment, he was no relation to her. All comments about her safety would fall on deaf ears. This seventeen year old musician, who simply looked identical to Klavier, give or take a few inches and replacing those infernal guitars with a piano, was an arrogant, pompous prick. He was also very jealous, insisting that he was the one to drive Trucy to her shows and when closer to his house, across the city, that she stayed with him.

Phoenix, well, he'd become involved with the returning prosecutor, Miles Edgeworth. Apollo wasn't sure how he was involved, and he didn't get the impression it was romantically, more the closeness shared between very close friends, or siblings. Instead of re-training to be the world famous attorney that was expected to return to the lime-light within the next month or so, he'd become the smooth-talking prosecutor's 'pet'. Edgeworth dragged Phoenix across the whole world, taking him to all manor of events and conventions, just for the company. So Apollo had lost the only father figure he had ever known.

Ema and Klavier, well, they were romantically involved. Well, romantically may not be correct, she appeared in all the photos of Klavier looking as stunning as always. She was the one who'd kiss him when asked, appear at his side whenever he needed protection, but looked the other way when Klavier eyed up another girl. Apollo saw her almost as an escort to Klavier, they were fuck buddies, anyone who worked anywhere near the precinct could figure that. Happiness and emotional comfort came secondary to the "mind-blowing sex" to quote Ema. She pretended to be his lover in return for sex and gifts. Apollo wasn't jealous of Klavier for winning Ema's heart, he didn't really like her all that much anyways, it was the fact that in them pretending to be lovers, he had lost both the best friends he loved so dearly.

Vera Misham, she'd gone into therapy, getting her to talk was the main priority. She was there for two months, and in that time, Apollo had taken it upon himself to maintain her studio, tend to her plants and remove her fathers equipment and belonings, helping her to forget the past. Shame that when she returned, she returned a super confident young woman who was slightly aloof. Never even thanked him for his time. Was as bold as to accuse him of stealing some of her art supplies.

Kristoph, he was, and always had been a contributing factor to Apollo's mood changes. That man had been his inspiration to do well, had taken him and nurtured him to be a loyal dog, a pathetic cog in a well oiled machine which disguised a killer.

Family and friends from his past, reminding him of how his life was so screwed over, well they were enough to drive any human being into a violent depression. There was the woman who took him in, the foster carer who raised him until he was eleven years of age, she claimed she was a kind and friendly woman, in reality, she was driven to despair by the fact she couldn't provide for the children she had taken into her care, and had begun to neglect them. Apollo couldn't remember a time between the ages of five and eleven he even had a full meal. There was his friend from the home, a boy with whom he had grown, hiding a dark secret as he grew older and older, pretending nothing was wrong and being closer and closer to the boy so he wouldn't catch him out. His foster mother, treating him as second best when she had her own children. His younger brother and sister, his foster mother's they influenced his depression as well, both times. There was a girl in his life, way back when, who since falling out with her took it upon herself to make his life a misery. Finally, there was one final person, who influenced his life in such a severe way, he wanted to murder the person for what they did to him. This girl was like a sister to him, a passionate girl who no matter what, kept him inspired to keep working, then gave up on him when he needed it the most.

These thirteen people, individuals, they all changed and altered his life in fantastic ways, then destroyed him. Now they had influenced his decision to debate taking his own life.

-x-x-

Life had moved fast for him. Eighteen months ago, he was a fresh-faced boy with his face buried in a law textbook, living in a cardboard box of an apartment, funded by his college scholarship. He lived simply, vowing chastity and temperance. He never touched a drop of alcohol, never smoked as much as an menthol cigarette and was still a virgin and proud of it.

It sounds a miserable life, but when all you need to worry about is the occasional phone call to check in with your foster mother, what budget food to fill your belly with and your education, life was much simpler. Even though he was employed by Kristoph's law firm at this point in his life, he was still quite simply a Clark and a tea boy. He organised the books that people had finished reading, maintained the files and made Kristoph and his clients coffee on instruction.

His life had begun to change when he was promoted to actually being a protege to Kristoph. Kristoph had moved him out of his house (to which he had reacted unkindly) and it probably didn't help that he had continued living in that apartment, even to this rather depressing day. He was thankful however, that he had managed to pay for his cardboard box apartment and that it was still in his name.

Fast forward eighteen months, he was now one of the most famous lawyers in all of America. He was never left alone, and this scared him. He would make sure to point that out to someone when the time came.

-x-x-

That was why, for the twelth day, he was sat in his apartment, a notepad in front of him, the phone at his side, a kitchen knife within easy reach, contemplating what he had left to live for, and whether almost twenty-three years was enough to endure.

He was alone in the world. People were always quick to remind him of that, and now the demons in the back of his head wouldn't let him live it down.

Just a single phone call, off someone who cares, that would make me feel better.

He glanced over at the knife in the wooden block, there was a glint, a mischievous glint from the blade. He shook his head, pretended not to see it. Not to be captivated by that beautifully tempting sparkle. He shivered as he decided upon swinging open the safe hidden under his bed. Here, he kept alcohol, warming stuff, that would inspire a fire in his heart. Kept out of site and out of the way unless he truly needed it, like now. He needed something to make him feel warm.

The way he felt right now, he had no friends, no passion, hated work, hated life and so distant from his "family" that for the only time he could recall, he felt truly alone. So alone, that human emotion could not assign a feeling for it.

Scotch. A favourite of both his foster mother, and the woman who ran the orphanage where he lived. He saw how it made them relax, before they drank excess, and either withdrew into their own haze deep in their shells, or flew into a violent rage. For him, he hoped it would simply silence his demons.

When you're afraid of the future. When you're afraid of being in the public eye. When you're afraid of being well and truly alone, you experience a fear so gripping that it eats into your soul. Couple with that the idea that you have no true friends or family to rely upon, you can understand those demons that were dwelling deep within Apollo.

He didn't bother with a small glass, which scotch is traditionally poured into, instead, he chose a cola glass, filled the glass half way and downed the entire drink without a breath. It burned, igniting all his throat and chest as it passed through, to replace the coldness that spiked his blood. He turned back a page of his notebook.

Day 11: I will wait twenty-four hours. If I get a phone call from someone I truly care about, and who truly cares for me...I will banish this desire to play a dangerous game. Using that beautiful and ever tempting knife to put myself in a delicate suspension between life and death.

Day 10: Today, while out, paparazzi approached me about another 'high profile' client. Yeah, high profile my ass! The woman I am defending is a whore. Nothing more. She turns tricks with more famous male clientèle, sells her stories to the papers, and has thus become rich from it. An escort, a cheap dirty hooker. These are my true feelings for this woman. She is yet another burning reminder that I am alone. After all, there was no Trucy at my side in the court, no Ema presenting the facts, no Klavier a mere 10 steps away from me, helping me discover the truth.

This woman is guilty, I know it, and I don't want to free her, those who kill for money, like how she killed that film star just because he was supposedly a client who wouldn't pay up, deserve to rot in hell. I will sell my soul to the devil if I allow this woman to go free.

He kept turning even further back, till he ended up with day 1.

Day 1: I fear all motivation is leaving my body, as if it is leaking out my body where I feel my heart has been pierced. Today was my twenty-third birthday. Nobody was there. I liked it when I was younger, that silent solitude and reflection time on your future, but now I am grown, all I do is look back at my miserable past and look forward to the future in the public eye. To be ridiculed for all the decisions I make, this is not the life I want to lead.

Trucy was off with her boyfriend again, Phoenix in Milan, Ema and Klavier probably in some fancy hotel sipping expensive wine while they continue satisfying their grotesque sexual needs. I sit alone at the kitchen island, staring at a knife in the wooden block, wondering if all I've endured is worth it. Wondering if I should end it all.

"And I'm still wondering it now." He hastily poured out another large dose of scotch, throwing his head back and swalllowing the stuff as quickly as he could.

He could feel that haze from the alcohol already, and could hear the voice in his head.

"Apollo..." It mocked, in a ghastly jester-like tone. "Hey look over here Apollo." His eyes were drawn to the same knife that had been captivating him for twelve days now. "If life's so bad, why don't you end it?"
"N-no." He whimpered.
"Come on Apollo." The infernal voice drew out its syllables as much as it could. "You've had a miserable childhood...a miserable life to be fair. You've been thrown in the deep end and you hate it." The voice cackled. "You know what though? Where are those...friends..." it took especially long to draw out that word. "...family..." that one too. "...those you love, when you need them?"
"Shut up!" The boy raged, standing up with such a force and kicking the chair back so hard that it landed a few feet away with a clatter, a clatter he never heard. "What the heck do you know!"
"Come Apollo, calm down, why don't you come take a step closer?" As if mesmerised, he did exactly that, not before taking another large gulp of scotch, amber fire, as it were to him.

He was well aware he was talking to himself. Well aware he was letting those demons take over, after all, a blade doesn't speak.
"You bastard." He slurred, swaying slightly from the alcohol. "But..."
"I'm right aren't I?" The voice mocked. "They're not here! Twelve days you've waited! Twelve bloody days!" The voice got louder and Apollo gripped his head. "No phone calls, no visits...no friends, no family."
"They're just-" he was about to reason with the voice in his head, but the voice was right.
"They're just what? Hm? Screwing each other, miles away, hating your guts? Some friends and family they are!" The voice erupted into a mocking laughter. "Come now Apollo, they've worked out something's not right with you, surely. No person is that slow."

"So...what?" He hiccuped before continuing to slur. "They're...ignoring me?"
"They don't want you here." The voice said matter-of-factly. "So...how about you come pick that knife up...huh?" Suddenly, it dawned on Apollo, the voice in his head wasn't coming from the knife, but from the block where the knives were placed.

He reached out to grab the handle, but closed his hand and pulled back. He turned away and clung to the counter, shaking himself to reality.

"Blade not your thing? Well...always have those medicines." The voice giggled.
"N-no!" He shook his head.
"In denial? ...Think about it. I'll still be here. Why don't you go vomit up that amber fire you swallowed?" He suddenly clicked on that he wanted to vomit. Acid was boiling in his stomach, he knew there was a reason he didn't enjoy the alcohol.

As he leaned over the bowl of the toilet, trying to vomit up that alcohol he'd poisoned himself with, he closed his eyes and reflected.

The knife block – the voice in my head – it's right, if someone wanted me here, they'd have called, or stopped by or whatever to check I was ok. I've had no contact at all. Maybe I'm not meant to be in this world, twenty-three years and nobody has ever given me happiness. I don't think I can take it anymore...

"I heard all that." The voice giggled as he returned to the kitchen, still drunk but now able to see in a roughly straight line. "Am I right?"
"I..." He hesitated. "Y-yes. Nobody wants me here. I...I should die. Leave them in a world without me." He whimpered. "They don't care, and I'm miserable as fuck. So...I..."

Without the earlier hesitation he reached for the handle of the blade, the blade glinted under the artificial light, and somehow that glint matched the one he pictured on the voice in his head. Time seemed to pass painfully slow as he simply stared at this...tool. This tool could end his life, but it could also release some of the pain in his heart.

He picked his chair back up, and sat at the kitchen island, the blade lying in front of him. His notepad just in front.

Day 12: Sick of life, I've decided to try and release the pain, end my life, I've deliberated long enough. Twenty-three years of hell, misery. I would like to detail all the reasons, all the people that influenced my decision to do this. Once I've made the first cut...perhaps I'll write more.

He looked at the clock, it was midnight, it's day thirteen officially.

"Forgive me" he didn't know who, or what he was saying that to, as he lifted the knife and pushed it into the side of his skin, halfway down the lower arm. He let out a little cry as the blade very easily pierced into his skin. Little blood poured from the wound. What little did flow out, flowed straight onto the notepad. Tears flowed down his face at the thought of his self mutilation.

He knew you were meant to write a full suicide note, but he couldn't bring himself to do so. He didn't think the people that had influenced his decision to end his life deserved to know what they'd done. He wandered that if he took his life, right now in this kitchen, when his lifeless corpse would be found in a pool of its blood.

He left himself to cry, making a few minor wounds on his arms once more. The blood that poured out burned his skin as it flowed across the counter and his notebook.

"Feels good." He whispered to himself. He moved from the counter and towards his couch, wiping his arm on the cushions to give himself a good platform to make that fatal cut without missing.

He ran the side of the knife along his arm, wanting to find the best point to end his life as quickly as possible, to watch himself bleed. He found this point and lifted the blade, moving it to the side of his wrist ready to drag it across.

He felt his muscles pull, to drag the knife over, but the knife did not move. Something in his head, that had been dormant throughout the entire argument with that voice that had on origin in his head but emanated from the knife block, had come to life.
"I can't do it!" He cried out. Swivelling round and slamming the knife as hard as he could into the wooden coffee table. The blood poured off the knife, all over the coffee table. Something in his head took pleasure from it, seeing his blood pool on the table and drip onto the floor.

He sat, arms on his knees, weeping, allowing blood to cover his clothes, the wounds all spilling fresh blood onto his body.
"I can't do it, I can't do it, I can't do it." He shook his head, tears and blood going everywhere. Six wounds, all on the same arm, was all he had made. Why was he bleeding so much.

-x-x-

He fainted.

He fainted after blood loss, clearly the failed patch up job he had done with some bandage he found in a cupboard had prevented him passing away due to blood loss.

During the time it took him to take a drink of orange juice and eat a slice of his stale bread from the bread bin, he had realised how his dance with death had made him feel revitalised once more. He felt a release, he felt like he had taken revenge on those who had hurt him in some weird, cosmic way. He had decided what he would do.

He would simultaneously take revenge on the people who had ruined him, left him to rot inside his brain, and to experiment to see how much the people really cared. If nobody truly cared, then that would be the end. He would not be as cowardly as to back away from death again.

He had planned it all in his head, while cleaning his body in the shower.

He would fake his suicide, make a few more cuts, leave the blood to drip all over the kitchen and living area, then write a message in his own blood on the wall. On the off chance, that someone would come and check on him of course. Then he'd make it look like he dragged himself out the front door for some more peace and hide in his old apartment, nobody other than him knew where it was, not even Kristoph who had secured this apartment for him, knew where his old one was, or that he had maintained the empty apartment for the last year and a half.

Cutting, he could see why people would become addicted. He'd packed a bag, found a few more bandages to bind his new wounds, found a jacket which was dark enough for blood stains to not show through.

He felt violently ill as he pasted 'You did this to me' on the wall in his blood. Five new fresh wounds bleeding on his other arm. He felt ill, but he bound them as tightly as he could, drank as much fluid as he could handle and grabbed his backpack, packed sparingly with a change of clothes and two day's supply of packet foods. All he had in his old apartment were a few tins and a few pots, enough to cook a half decent meal. He had a kettle, so he could stop by a random shop in one of the lesser-known part of town to pick up some other supplies. He removed his attorney badge and threw it atop his notebook, with the second bloodied knife, to show that he was no longer the attorney boy again, before setting off into the warm sunlight.

-x-x-

The route he took in order to avoid possible detection had took him an hour and a half to trek. It didn't help that his wounds were bleeding more profusely than he thought they would, but finally, he was there.

The old apartment, a minute little bed-sit, stank of damp and bed linen he had forgotten to wash, but he had power, he was comfortable, and he missed this rat hole.

-x-x-

It was almost a day before he woke on his bare mattress. Then it dawned on him.

I forgot a note!

And a new idea hatched in his brain, something that could help him with that tiny problem.


A/N so sorry this dragged on forever, I didn't intend for this to take so long, and I have had to split this into two, will post the other half in a little over a week.

Again, please leave reviews as I'm a little under-confident here.