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His hair is tied back into a neat ponytail, exposing his discolored eye and the hideous scar that runs across his right cheek and all along the back of his neck. He stands before himself, dressed entirely in white. It really is a beautiful tuxedo, with matching shoes and a bowtie. On his desk, a piece of paper with a date, and just underneath it, the word, "Wedding." And yet, he doesn't seem happy about it at all. Rather, he seems to be searching for answers he will never be able to get, no matter how hard he tries. He takes in a short breath.

A light dripping sound.

A puddle of blood is at his feet. Spattered over his shoes, like rose petals on ivory.

The wrists of his tuxedo jacket are an incredibly bright crimsion, further illuminated by the pristine whiteness of the material.

"...I'm tired of being lied to," he whispers, still staring at himself in the mirror. "I'm done with it. To hell with everyone, everything. I'm tired of life."

Slowly, he turns around to look at you. The blood dripping from his wrists cast tiny red spots on his once-perfectly white pants.

"Have you ever been lied to so often that you can no longer distinguish it from the truth?" he asks. "...Everyone told me to watch out for him. 'He couldn't be trusted,' they said. 'He's got someone else.' I'm not going to look the other way anymore."

Aramis begins to walk back to his desk. He slowly starts to move the items around. Blood smears over the paper maked "wedding" and streaks over the wood. A bottle of whiskey, its label dotted with his reddened fingerprints, stands half-empty. A small knife is coated with his sanguine life. He sits down at the desk and rests his head on it, staring out of a nearby window.

"It's beautiful outside," he whispers. You think about going to get help, but you're relatively sure he'd probably be dead by the time you return.

"I wish I could go back in time. I'd more fully enjoy the time I had with my mother... my father... my wife and our little girl..."

Your eyes widen suddenly. You were unaware he had a child. Perhaps that was the one thing he was so reserved about saying--that from his marriage to Kissie, a child was born. And whatever ailment took his wife obviously took his daughter with it.

"That time is passed. Do you think," he says, closing his eyes, "that maybe... They'll be able to hear me calling out to them from hell?"

He falls eerily silent. You most certainly don't wish to investigate. You try to remember if you've ever seen a dead body, save for at a funeral. But is he dead? No... he can't be. You make a move to poke him in the shoulder, but decide against it. Instead, in your confusion and worry, you can do nothing more than back out of his room and close the door behind you.