Diary of an Angst Authoress

by WSJ

This is my story. Yet at the same time it is the story of countless angst writers everywhere. I may not own the characters or the song, but the story is ours. All of us have a little angst-writer in us.

Dedicated to those who feel the same way I do, which I have tried my best to capture in this story using myself and our own most-beloved Ryou Bakura and Duo Maxwell.


A small smile curving her thin lips, the tall woman flicked the light-switch into the 'off' possition. She pulled the trigger she held in her hand and the lighter flared to life. Pacing around the room the black-clad teenager lighted every candle she possessed, not caring that the scents of vanella, pumpkin, rasberry and cinnamon tangled into one big network of oders.

She set the lighter down on her desk, wincing as she heard her father yelling at her sister in the livingroom, right outside her bedroom door. She moved to the door and made sure it was locked before turning to her closet.

She pulled the door open and selected the clothes she had had prepared for this exact occation. Stripping out of her black dress she pulled on the tight, black-leather pants and black, long-sleeved shirt. She rolled the sleeves up to above her elbows so that the white lining showed, but only a little. She quickly braided her hair into one long, thick, blond French braid that fell her her waist, and then placed a black baseball cap over it all. Walking to her dresser she lifted the two necklaces off it, the two she had never worn, but would wear tonight.

One was a simple silver cross with the word Maxwell engraved across the arms. The other was bigger and quite a bit heavier, and was an exact replica of the Millinium Ring.

She slid them over her head, smiling as the weight of them settled around her neck. Time for the final touch. Reaching up, she snapped her stereo on and inserted her newest CD. She placed one song on repeat, smiling again as it began to blast through her speakers.

The yelling in the livingroom stopped, and then her father began to pound on the door. Knowing that the lock would hold, she ignored it, and moved instead to her desk.

She sat down in her chair and turned the computer on, staring moodily into the middle-distance and singing along absently with the lyrics to her favorite song as she waited for it to boot up.

Cut my life into pieces

This is my last resort

She breathed the conflicting candle-scents deeply, drinking in the bizarre mix of oders. A wreath of smoke began to hover around the ceiling, and absently she wondered just what was in those "special" candles she'd bought the other day.

Finally her clunky old 8-bit got its rear in gear and asked for her password. She knew it by heart and typed it without even looking. YamiMaxwell. A window box popped up on the screen. Welcome Wingleader Sora Jade.

WSJ scowled at it and clicked it off, entering instead into notepad. It was time to write her final story, her final song.

Suffocation, no breathing

Don't give a **** if I cut my arm,


This is my last resort.

As she typed, her fingers began to move on automatic as she reflected over her life. Her mother and father loved each other dearly and had "no time" for anyone else, including their three children. So WSJ had been left her whole life to take care of her five-years-younger sister and six-years-younger brother, mostly on her own.

Her dealings with her dad were strictly professional. 'Did you do your homework?' 'Go clean your room.' 'Make sure you change the cat's litter.' Her dad treated her like a slave and she accepted it. It wasn't like it was anything she could change.

She and her mother, on the other hand, fought constantly. About everything. Both parents thought WSJ could and should be perfect, and so scolded her for any little task done wrong. They thought that they were helping her, when instead they were tearing her life apart.

She'd tried to tell them, once. They'd laughed. They'd actually laughed and thought it was one of her jokes.

Yes, jokes. While WSJ's insides were shattered, her Mask was flawless. She joked, she laughed, she smiled. No one would ever guess who she really was. No one ever noticed that her smiles never reached her eyes.

She had several aquaintences in school who also wrote for FF.N. When ever they asked her what her SN was, she could never tell them Wingleader Sora Jade. She'd tried, but they didn't believe the fun-loving girl they "knew", to be the angst-obsessed death-writer on FF.N.

Cut my life into pieces

I reached my last resort, suffocation no breathing

Don't give a **** if I cut my arm bleeding

Do you even care if I die bleeding?

There was only one person who had ever gotten close to really knowing WSJ. That had been Rose. Rose and she were the same. Both had been shattered early in life, both knew how it was to hurt, both were angst imbodied.

The two had instantly become best friends. Whenever WSJ's dad made her especially angry with one command or another, it was to Rose she would run. Rose would listen and sit quietly as WSJ stormed around her room, ranting and punching walls. Once she'd been especially outraged and had thrown Rose's lamp across the room, breaking it into a million peices. Rose hadn't cared.

Whenever Rose's siblings gave her an especially hard time, Rose would run to WSJ and cry on the older girl's shoulder. The two were inseperable.

Until Rose was in a car accident that cut her life short.

After that WSJ had become even more of a recluse then before. She locked herself in her room for hours, days on end, writing away her sorrow. She had refused to attend the funeral, chosing instead to remember Rose as she had last seen her. Laughing and smiling. But again, that was Rose's Mask, just as it was WSJ's.

Would it be wrong, would it be right,

If I took my life tonight?

Chances are that I might,

Mutilation out of sight.

And I am contemplating suicide.

Sitting at her computer in her candle-lit room, her dad pounding on the door in time to the music blaring from her speakers, WSJ began to laugh. It was not the laugh that her Mask used, high and lilting, but her laugh, her true laugh, deep and throaty and sorrow-filled.

It emmerged from her throat as her hands continued to fly across the keyboard. Tears streamed down her cheeks as the lyrics of the song that had been written for her scorched their way across her mind and heart.

Rose had been a song-writer. The day before she'd died she'd gotten a contract in the mail for one of her songs, Last Resort. She'd reveiled to WSJ then that she'd written Last Resort about the two of them, their true selves, not their Masks.

WSJ laughed loud and long, and began to shout the lyrics to the heavens as her hands typed the conclution to her story, gory, angsty and depressive, as usual.

Cause I'm losing my sight, losing my mind,

Wish somebody would tell me I'm fine!

Losing my sight, losing my sight, losing my mind,

Wish somebody would tell me I'm fine.

She laughed at all the people at school who thought her so perfect. She laughed at her family, who thought of her as a possetion to be owned and used as needed. She laughed at the world, who was too wrapped up in its own preoccupations to notice one small, unsignificant human mortal.

At school she'd always gotten strait A's. She was famous around school for her artwork, her stories (the un-angsty ones, of course) and her sence of humor. She was a wizz with languages and spoke Japanese and French as well as English. She was pretty, and slim. As far as most of the school was concerned, she was perfect.

This thought only made WSJ laugh harder. If only they knew!

In reality, she dove headfirst into her studies because nothing else could fill her. She spoke many tongues because it was easier not to get caught if you cussed in Japanese. She wrote to get away, to escape. That was the reason anyone wrote. She was slim because she rarely ate, concentrating instead on her many fanfictions. She was pretty naturally.

I never realized I was spread too thin

'Til it was to late and I was empty within, hungry.

Feeding on chaos and living in sin,

Downward spiral, where do I begin?

It all started when I lost my mother,

No love for myself, and no love for another.

Slowly WSJ's laughter died to mere snickers as she logged on to FanFiction.Net. Going to a Christian school had made all the difference. She'd found her Jesu Christi.

Many people thought that Christians had no desire to die, but were happy when they did, because then they would go to heaven.

WSJ was the exact opposite. She wanted to die so baddly. The world was horrible. Even in her Christian school, cheating, lying, stealing abounded. No one bothered to listen during chapel, fending that they'd heard it all before. WSJ wanted to die so she could be with her Jesu, and be with her Rose.

Frowning slightly, WSJ turned to glare at the stereo as the next set of lyrics came up. These were the only ones she didn't agree with.

Searching, to find a love upon a higher level

Finding nothing but questions and devils

WSJ sighed. She didn't know what Rose had been thinking when she wrote that rhyme. Then she remembered that Rose had told her that the editors had fiddled with it a bit, and this hadn't been part of the original song.

This cheered her somewhat, and she turned back to the computer.

Her story, her last fic, was a crossover. Gundam Wing and Yu-Gi-Oh. Her two favorite characters, Ryou Bakura and Duo Maxwell, stumble onto an assasination plot they had to thwart.

They failed.

At the end, in her author's notes, she said her final good-byes to those who had touched her, no matter in how small of a way. Most were angst-writers like herself. SuperKat, White Angel, DemonSaya...

She posted it and then settled back in her seat, singing along with the next set of lyrics.

Cause I'm losing my sight, losing my mind,

Wish somebody would tell me I'm fine!

Losing my sight, losing my mind,

Wish somebody would tell me I'm fine...

A tear slid out of her eye and she closed her eyes, her mind drifting back over the years. To her first meeting with Rose, to the day she'd finally dedicated her life to Jesu. Those were the two happiest memories she had, and two of the only ones that were happy at all.

Her eyes still closed, her left hand moved to the hidden drawer in her desk, managing the catch and sliding it open.

Whatever was in those candles really had a hold on her now, as she picked up the thin-bladed, silver knife out of the hidden drawer.

"Jesu Christi," she muttered. "Please, I want to go home..."

The knife moved closer to her wrist.

Be fore it connected to the skin, she gazed at her pale, white arms. Scars criss-crossed up and down, some from her cat's claws, some from this very knife.

Nothing's all right, nothing is fine

I'm running and I'm crying

I'm crying, I'm crying, I'm crying, I'm crying

A beep from the computer caused her to snap out of her reverie, and her eyes immediately widened. She watched in facination as the reviews began to mount. Ten... Twenty... Already!?!

Hesitantly she clicked on the button that would allow her to see the reviews up on-screen.

"WSJ, don't do it! You are loved, by us!"

"WSJ, you can't go! What would we do without you?"

WSJ, even though we've never met, you're like a sister to me! Don't go!"


As more and more appeared to scroll across the screen, WSJ's eyes began to water. "I'm... loved?"

I…Can't…Go… on…Living… this… way…

Cut my life into pieces, this is my last resort

Suffocation, no breathing,

Don't give a **** if I cut my arm,


Rage welled up in her as she tried to bring the knife closer to her skin, but found she couldn't. "No! Why won't you let me die! Please! I want to die!!!"

Would it be wrong, would it be right, if I took my life tonight?

Chances are that I might, mutilation out of sight, and I'm contemplating suicide.

WSJ, You have so many who look up to you. How can you think about leaving them?

"I-I don't know..."

You are being selfish daughter. They need you. They need Me too. What if you are the only one they could ever hear about Me from?

Cause I'm losing my site, losing my mind

Wish somebody would tell me I'm fine!

Losing my sight, losing my mind

Wish somebody would tell me I'm fine

WSJ sighed, her head dropping onto her chest. Her hand moved and redeposited her knife into the drawer, sliding it closed.

Nothings all right, nothing is fine, I'm running and I'm crying.

Turning her attention back to her computer, she began to type out her next story, a GW song-fic called Angel Boy.

Sure, she still wished she could die, but she knew she had a responcibility. She'd have to go on.


Can't go on

Living this way

Nothing's all…


And maybe, someday, things would be right again.


^_^ Don't worry minna-san. I wouldn't suicide, but there have been times I wished I was brave enough to. And that GW story I mentioned, Angel Boy, really is one of my stories. One of my better ones in fact. ^_^ Go read it onegai!

God Bless Minna-San!