Lifeless
By Yassandra
Disclaimer: I do not own Kyle or Roswell in any way shape or form - although I wish I did!
What have I done?

What have I allowed to happen?

I should’ve called his Dad. Should’ve called my brother. Should’ve called someone.

I can’t handle this alone.

What made me wonder where he had gone?

And in my mind I’m there again. Standing outside the bathroom. Knowing he was in there. Wondering if he was ok.

The door was slightly ajar and I could see he was sitting on the floor. I pushed open the door and went in.

Oh God I wish I hadn’t.

There’s nothing that can prepare you for the sight of your best friend sat on the floor with a razor blade beside him, blood running down his arms and fear in his eyes as he looks at you. I wish I’d called someone to help me. Someone else who might be able to fix things. Max. The Sheriff. Someone.

I asked him what he thought he was doing. And suddenly he was on his knees. Holding my hands. Reassuring me. Telling me that it’s all going to be ok. Telling me that he realises he needs help and is gonna get some. Telling me that cuts heal.

He’s lying and I think we both know it.

I saw the scars that cross his forearms. How did I not see them before? The scars that show this isn’t the first time he’s hurt himself. I’m sure it won’t be the last.

And I don’t know what to do.

He’s sat across from me now. At a table in the Crashdown. Celebrating the defeat of the latest alien related threat.

His eyes frighten me. They’ve always been so expressive. So alive. Kyle has always worn his emotions in his eyes.

Now they’re dead. Lifeless. Empty. Lost.

And I wonder how no-one else is noticing this. How I never noticed this before.

Am I reading too much in?

I know I’m acting strangely. Jumpy. Liz has already asked me once if everything’s ok.

I lied. I told her I had PMS and changed the subject.

Why didn’t I tell her the truth? That I’m afraid. Afraid that my friend is slowly destroying himself. And afraid that there’s no way I can help him.

I don’t say anything. I don’t say anything because we all have secrets and this isn’t my secret to tell. Because if I tell I might push him even further away. Because I don’t want to hurt him anymore than he’s already hurt.

He’s getting up. Saying he has to go to work. And the thing that scares me most of all is that everything seems so normal. That
he seems so normal.

And I want to grab his arm. To force him to sit back down and talk to me. To tell me what he’s feeling. What’s going on in his head. To tell me why.

But I don’t. I watch him leave. Listen to my other friends talk about school or something else equally trivial. Push my pancakes around my plate with my fork while Michael eyes them greedily, wondering if he can steal a bite without my noticing.

And I think about drops of blood glistening on the edge of a razor blade.

**
End **