So I was in the process of writing an essay about Russia, Germany and the Cold war and this would not get out of my head so I had to write it down. Oh the things the Russians do to me...

For now it is only a one shot/letter, but it has the potential of becoming an intro for something bigger, so let me know if you are interested.

And before you throw any rocks, this is VERY angst-y and a bit OOC.

Enjoy!

Disclaimer: I do not own Twilight.

–x–x–x–x–x–x–x–x–x–x–x–x–x–x–x–x–x–x–x–x–x–x–x–x–x–x–x

You think the pain will go away. You think that the perfect childhood, doll-playing and parents who love you is going to be enough. Finally you think, there is no reason for this sadness, no reason for my wrists to be open and bloodied.

Yet, here I am. Deep, vertical slits. That is how you know I am serious. Nevermind the pain, I welcome it; I am a masochistic bitch. The blood though, the blood is almost beautiful as it pulses from my arm only to land on the white sheet. Like an artist, I paint my canvas in vibrant red––in blood.

It will be over soon, my masterpiece. The work of art that will make me and end me. You won't have to see me anymore. I won't have to see you anymore. I'm putting myself out of my misery. I am forcing you to join me in my misery.

Don't bother saving me. You will get here in time but you will not see me in time. I know this because I have studied your schedule carefully. You will get home, open your door with the third key in your keychain, the one with the faded letters and nicked metal. You nicked it on the top right corner when you ran it over with the car last year. I remember, I was there, watching, crying.

That was the first time you left me.

Once inside, the routine is always the same. Messenger bag thrown on the floor in front of the hallway closet, a glass of water placed on the kitchen that never gets drunk, the TV turns on. Always the same programme: world news (in Italian no less). I couldn't believe it the first time I went to your apartment, a barista working in some run down joint and who wears Armani, lives on a Penthouse and speaks perfect Italian.

I was naive then, I didn't know the truth. They told me the truth, after you left the second time. I forgave you for leaving again, you know. Found out you were being hunted by Interpol. Your beautiful face in the 10 most wanted list, no particular reason or explanation given. Two phrases: Extremely dangerous. Shoot upon sight.

They were right on one account, you are extremely dangerous but not to others. No, only to yourself and therefore to me.

Bag on the floor, glass on the kitchen table, TV on world news. The computer is turned on. You will pass by the bedroom door to get there, but you won't see me laying on your bed, blood dripping on the floor––the door is only slightly open, just the way you like to leave it. I will see you pass by, and I'll smile knowing what comes next. Your computer will provide you with a complete security check of the apartment, including thermal scans. Too bad you taught me how to fool any security––the scan will come in normal.

The next step is music, usually some heavy metal nonsense. The band depends on your mood. I predict today will be Pantera. At least I hope so, it fits my mood. I never understood why you would leave the TV and the music on at the same time, don't think I ever will.

You will cross by the bedroom door again to go to the living room. This time, if you look you might see me; the door is at the right angle for that. But you won't look, you never look because you don't deviate from routine––you can't. You will pass by once more, then you will sit on the sofa and read the headline article from the NY Times (especially delivered by Cynthia, your lovely fiancee).

Bag on the floor, cup on the kitchen table, computer on, security check, heavy metal, article.

It's shower time. This is when you'll find me. You won't scream because you never scream. You won't be shocked because you've seen it coming. Subconsciously you knew I was here, waiting. You could smell me the moment you walked through the door. You heard the dripping the moment you turned off the sink. You felt me looking on your way to the office and again on your way to the living room. While your eyes read, your brain formulated explanations for what you smelled, head and felt.

You will come to me, slowly. Apologies will spill out of your mouth. I will be silent, my body will be numb, my eyes will be dull. The flow of blood now is minimal, there's almost nothing left. But you will try. You'll try to save me despite me telling you not to.

You won't be able to save me. I made sure of that. I memorized your routine. I'm ending my misery, I'm making you part of it.

I loved you.

I hate you.

Leah.

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R&R peeps. Reviews make me happy and that makes the world go 'round.