The storm was still raging outside as Hardin went to the window, drawing the curtains open just a little bit. Sydney could be out there somewhere... not that it was any of his concern. It was not. It never would be again, in all likelihood, and so there was no point in thinking about it.

I suppose I should move to another room. Or he should.

The small table that stood below the window - we used to eat breakfast here - served well enough as a seat, and he leaned against the cold glass, his breath coming too quickly and desperately as he stared blankly out at the droplets running down the window, blurring his vision of what lay beyond.

They can say it all they like... but I can't believe it. No. No. He doesn't love me. And therefore, how I feel doesn't matter at all.

In such an agitated state of mind, he could easily understand Sydney's rampages, those fits of anger and frustration that led him to tear apart anything that lay before him. He never touched me, though... he always warned me away so that he wouldn't... no. Hardin felt the same now - a nearly uncontrollable desire to smash the table lamp, to turn over a chair, anything to loose the emotion he tried to hide away.

But that has never been my way. I know too well it doesn't solve anything... it only destroys more than what has already been destroyed.

A faint bitter laugh sounded wrong even in his own ears. Namely, myself.

With the thought came something darker.

The top drawer of the desk was locked with one of the keys that only he and Sydney carried, for they did not want Joshua accidentally stumbling across the contents. Hardin fumbled through it recklessly, spilling some of the contents onto the floor: tattered silk, lengths of cord, bottles of certain substances, and a few other assorted... "toys", Sydney would have said, but certainly not for children.

The objects all brought back memories, and Hardin pushed them away physically and mentally, searching for the one item that didn't fit in at all. He'd had no other safe place to keep it, though, and indeed he found it after a time, pushed far to the back where it caught no light at all. But when he held it up, inspecting the blade, he found the metal still gleamed perfectly. The edge had not corroded or gone dull.

This dagger, christened Belladonna many years before, had always been his favorite. It would serve him well, he thought, also gathering an old shirt from the closet before returning to the table by the window. He sat, looking down at the dagger laid on the table beside him, for some time. Finally he drew the curtains, leaving the room in near absolute darkness, and rolled up his left sleeve.

Taking Belladonna in his right hand, he stared at his forearm, calculating. This was a dangerous game to play, but he needed it now. He turned his arm over, regarding the skin on the back, then turned it over again to examine the more sensitive skin at the wrist. The point of the dagger hovered there for a moment, just barely touching, before he changed his mind and moved it halfway to his elbow instead.

A line of crimson appeared as the dagger's edge bit into his flesh, and he drew a hissing breath at the sting. Even so, he pressed a bit deeper, letting the blood flow more swiftly.

...grey eyes, questioning, widening with pleasure...

Hardin closed his eyes against the memory, banishing it from his mind. The stinging pain in his forearm was something to concentrate on, and after a moment, he was able to look down at the wound again. The dagger lifted, and he pressed the old shirt against the injury. No sense in ruining the carpet, or the furniture.

Leaving the shirt in his lap, he shifted Belladonna in his hand, setting the blade at an angle from the first cut before pressing in a second time. This time, he drew it down to make a longer slash that stretched nearly to his elbow, and the drops of crimson followed, falling onto the cloth below.

...lips twisted in a satisfied smirk... parting as they leaned forward to touch his cheek, his chin, his throat...

Hardin shook his head, determined not to be overwhelmed. His breath gradually slowed to an almost normal pace as the act soothed his emotions, and he lifted the dagger again, carefully making another cut closer to the wrist and encircling around to the back of his forearm.

...claws closed around wrists mercilessly... slender body leaning against him, warm breath in his ear...

His breath was quickening again. He knew what he wanted to feel next, but he remained still, his right hand frozen, until he could bear it no longer. Pushing his left sleeve up further, the dagger drew a swift, neat slash across his upper arm, nearly at his shoulder.

...firm metal hands pushing him down against the mattress, time seeming to stand still... a halo of pale hair over him, strands drifting to rest slowly in his perception, as if underwater...

Again he shook his head, but it was too much now for him to resist. Trembling with shame, he unfastened the top buttons on his shirt, pushing the fabric aside for access, and cut a shallow line down his chest from the collarbone.

...firm waist beneath his hands, warm and inviting, between his thighs...

Pulling the shirt's collar away from his neck, Hardin drew a deep breath, letting it out shakily as the dagger pierced the skin of his left shoulder and carved a smooth red line towards the last. Immediately, he repeated the motion, making two identical lines across his chest.

...hips pressed against his own... pale lashes curving across eyes closed in bliss...

Belladonna fell to the red-dappled cloth in his lap as shivering fingers no longer held their grip. His eyes were squeezed shut, heedless, as he gasped for breath and for control.

"...More... please..."

Gradually, the ringing in his ears subsided until the only sounds were his own harsh breathing and the rain battering against the window. Blinking at the dark solitude of his current reality, Hardin finally looked down at his stained shirt, at the broken flesh of his arm, and the dagger in his lap, edges tinged with red. The cuts were still bleeding, some of them rather badly. Even so, it was with reluctance that he uttered the words of a healing spell, causing the wounds to close and the memories to fade.

The beads of sweat upon his brow chilled him as he leaned his forehead once more against the cold glass of the window, his hand rising to cover his eyes in grief.

"Why can't it just hurt...?"