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He can’t take this much longer. No, scratch that, he won’t take this any more. He’s lived with it all for years, bottling everything up behind those shades and stony attitude, but he’s at his breaking point. There is nothing to stop him- everyone is gone. Bro is dead and he’s alone. There’s no better time.
Every step closer to the bathroom, every harsh breath, is finalization that this is it. He’d considered it before, but now he was done. He steps into the cold tiled room, not bothering to turn the lights on. Hands shaking, he opens the drawer, reaching in to place the rattling orange containers on the counter. He stares at his reflection in the mirror, picking out each flaw, each bruise, each scar. No one will care, no one cares anyways. He was nothing.
He brushes his hair quickly, then grabs the pill bottles and heads to his room. He fumbles around for the light switch, and after a moment the bulb on the ceiling flickers on. He walks over to the bed, pulling out the shoebox underneath it, and placing it on the sheets. Carefully opening the box, he gently removes a shining blade, setting it on the dresser next to the pill bottles.
Heart thumping, he places the shoebox on the floor. It doesn’t need to be hidden any more, there’s no one left to see. He sits down on the bed, opening his laptop and clicking on the pesterchum icon. He wasn’t going to say anything, but there was one person he had to tell. He types slowly, pressing each key down hard. Once the message is sent, he smiles. At least one person would make it through this.
He sets the laptop aside and picks up the blade, rolling up his sleeves to reveal scars lacing up his arms. It’s cold blade presses into his skin once, twice… When he sets the red-stained blade back on the dresser, there are seven candy red streaks on his wrist, dripping blood down his arm.
He’s hunched over now, his whole body trembling, struggling to hold the tears in. He glances at the dim computer screen. No reply yet. He’ll be out of school in an hour though, better hurry up.
With a shaking hand, he picks up his glass of water, poured earlier, and one of the pill bottles. His hands shake so much he can hardly open the container, but somehow he manages. Taking a deep breath, he places one small white capsule on the back of his tongue. He shuts his eyes and swallows it with a gulp of water.
As more and more pills go down, the empty bottles pile up, and tears streak his cheeks. He sets the last empty container with the others, finally letting himself go. His body is racked with sobs, threatening to make him vomit, but he swallows hard. This has to work. He puts the glass down, then leans back against the headrest of the bed, removing his shades and placing them next to him. Tears streak down his face as he glances at the computer one last time. 30 minutes until he’d get home, that’s plenty of time.
He shuts his eyes, praying that this will be the last time he’ll have to.
The computer screen flashes, the last imprint of him slowly fading away with his consciousness.
—turntechGodhead [TG] began pestering ectoBiologist [EB] at 3:26—
TG: please dont cry
—turntechGodhead [TG] ceased pestering ectoBiologist [EB]—