content warning: suicidal ideation

There really is no hope.

You just lie here. You haven’t moved in days. Or months, maybe. You’re decaying, rotting away, and no vultures will find you to feast on you, your body will end up going to waste.

All because of- It’s embarrassing to even say. It’s pathetic to think that so little can break you like this. All because of one boy. A boy you’ve known for exactly six weeks. That’s all it takes to make you waste away like this.

For once, you don’t get what you want, and it shuts you down completely. It breaks you into pieces and you’re too stupid to reassemble them. You’ve never been one to pick up your own broken shards. You let others do the work, and then they cut themselves. You expected him to do the same, didn’t you? You thought he’d work his hands until they were bloody for you. And then he didn’t. And now it’s your end.

You’re alone now. And you have no one to blame for your loneliness but yourself.

You want to stop existing, and frankly, it may be better that way. You’re a lot, you know that, you’ve always been. The fact that you exist has always been a bother to someone since the very first day. It’s a bother to him now, too. It probably is.

You want to get so angry about this. You want to be so very mad at him. You hate him. Yes. Surely, you hate him, because he’s in the wrong for breaking you. God, you’re an idiot. You’re a fucking idiot, and you even know that yourself. You know how god damn dumb you are. And yet you just can’t stop yourself. You still told him. You knew. And you still fucking told him.

Look at you in a fit of what you pretend to be rage, throwing things around, but the moment something shatters, you realise what you did. You still didn’t clean up that bottle, by the way. Are you waiting to slip and fall in the broken glass? Is it a reminder that the shit you break will never be whole again? If only one reminder was enough to stop you from doing it though.

Maybe your entire apartment needs to be filled with shards of glass. Maybe they need to cut into every inch of your skin to make you understand the consequences of your actions. But knowing you, you’d bleed out before you start to understand. Not that this is a problem. You want to bleed out. What’s kept you from doing exactly that, though?

And all that, just because of- Well, to give you credit, you’ve been messed up from the very beginning. You started destroying lives before you were even born, so maybe this is your punishment for that. Your life has been leading up to a total failure like this.

You forced your mother to be tied down to a life she’d hate when you were born, and your father… oh your “father” got to take a role he probably would’ve died to escape. He didn’t die, nor did you that day, no matter how much either of you had hoped you would.

Your friends clean after you like maids and patch you up like nurses and listen to your bullshit like therapists and are paid with ignorance. Some of your friends turn into enemies or lovers or both, and they beat you up with fists and gazes.

The people you love hate you for loving them because you do it wrong every time, you do so too much or too little or maybe it’s not your love but you.

You’re a lazy asshole that doesn’t care about life and yourself and anyone around you because that’s what everyone tells you, and everyone is always right, and you are always wrong. The only way to be right is to be what they want. You don’t know what you are or who you are or why you are, you didn’t, until now, now you do.

But did it matter? Does knowing who you are make you feel any better if the one person that saw you is gone and the other ones still fear that false version of you?

Does anything matter, Alexander? The last bottle of expensive alcohol you smashed on the floor? The unanswered messages of your one friend that still gives a shit? The calls from school you’ve never once picked up? Does he matter? The last six weeks, and all the emotions you’ve felt, did they ever once matter to anyone?

Do you matter, Alex? Would it make a difference if you never existed? It’d be one less problem for him, maybe. One less intrusive thought.

You knew all along that you were a bother, you’ve never been liked, you’ve never been pleasant to be around. And people told you. And he told you. Suddenly it’s a problem.

You fell for him so easily. He’s an actor, didn’t he tell you? His life is a performance, and so is yours, but at least he gets to choose the role he’s playing. It’s an act, it’s fake, it’s for an audience, and you were stupid enough to become part of the audience, and you fell for him. And now you care so much about fictional feelings that it scares him.

You’re a mess, Alex. You were born to break and now you have. That’s it. That’s what your life was going to be like all along. Punch after punch, most of them caused by your own stupidity, and an eventual knock out.

Yeah. That’s it. It’s your end. You’ll get to live the rest of your life unmoving, chained to your own bed, until you melt into it and disappear.

Or you’ll do what you deserve and abuse yourself like a stray dog until you’ve learned not to fuck things up. This will take a while.

Or you die.

Or you stop caring about him, and about yourself, and about anything, and you indulge in everything that’s bad because bad things are good. This will also kill you, at some point.

Or you move on, and pretend like you’re worthy of help, and grow, and change, and forgive him for being too good and forgive yourself for being too bad.

Or you die.

Would you like to die, Alex? Does it make a difference if you do?

Chapter 29 - YOU'RE DEAD AFTER ALL

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