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| Notice |
The following tales contain heavy topics of depression and anxiety. If you are suffering from these or if you are contemplating suicide, please seek help. The suicide prevention hotline is available 24 hours a day and is willing to listen to you. Therapists are available, and are ready to help.
"I deserve this."
A young man in a labcoat lies down on his bed weeping, an open phone's light being the only source of illumination that inhabits his dark room. The man on the mattress, him, crying his eyes out.
He looks back at his phone again, and he cries harder. He struggles to keep his thumbs and fingers steady as he types out the words, barely managing to get a cohesive paragraph from it.
But he deletes the wall of text instead.
He remembers all of what he's done to deserve what he feels. He feels like a weakling. He feels alone and afraid.
He feels like an asshole.
He feels like a dick.
He feels like a jerk.
"I deserve this."
Then, there's a moment of clarity. A moment where he reminds himself; A moment to remember how he's treated them. His fellow colleagues and co-workers. Was he a total jerk to them? Yes, he was. But he didn't care what he thought they thought of him. Just as long as he doesn't care, everything will be just fine.
Everything is just fine.
"You did his." He tells himself. Of course he talks to himself. People assumed he was crazy for pacing himself around in circles, having a conversation with himself. But he's done this before. He's done this for years, as a way to cope. As a way to keep himself sane and attached to the never ending spiral of pure insanity called reality.
"Sometimes, when I get mad… I just wish I had the guts to fucking kill myself." He whispers. "And yet here I am. Wondering why I didn't do it."
He stops.
"But I know why."
He looks up at his ceiling.
"Maybe it's because I'm too scared to die."
The world spins around him.
"Or maybe it's because there's some deep-gnawing feeling that, maybe, I'm doing this to get someone to feel bad for me."
Nothing gets better for him, nor ever will. He wants to close his eyes and hope that he never wakes up again.
He wants to never wake up.
Wake up. Wake up. Wake up.
That's his routine. His routine is to wake up and wake up and wake up over and over and over again. An endless repeating cycle of horrid misery that, he thinks, his work as a doctor would distract him from being alone.
His loneliness.
He had someone. He had been pining for a girl he liked for several years. But she put him down, just like the rest of them all before her. He's become too anxious to tell someone how he feels. He's scared of that un-reciprocated love that has haunted him ever since his youth. He's so scared and alone. That endless cycle. It all goes back to that cycle of misery. Of being hated. Of being unloved.
He wants to fucking die.
He wants to fucking die. He wants to fucking die. He wants to fucking die. He wants to fucking die. It hurts. He wants to fucking die. He wants to fucking die. He wants to fucking die. He wants to fucking die. He wants to fucking die. He wants to fucking die. He wants to fucking die. He wants to fucking die. He wants to fucking die. It hurts so much. He wants to fucking die. He wants to fucking die. He wants to fucking die. He wants to fucking die. He wants to fucking die. He wants to fucking die. He wants to fucking die. He wants to fucking die. Miserable fuck. He wants to fucking die. He wants to fucking die. He wants to fucking die. He wants to fucking die. He wants to fucking die.
"I deserve this."
You do.
A voice not his own. He hears it at the back of his head. But he doesn't flinch. He doesn't even blink.
"I hate this." He responds. "I hate myself, I hate everyone. I want to die, I want to die so much."
His face turns ugly as tears stream down his face. Sobbing for something he thinks won't come.
But you're scared, aren't you? The voice comes. You're scared of what happens next. You're a coward. You're not brave.
The twisted and warped words of what he believes is his conscious spin inside his head. He grips the bedsheets and cries like a wounded animal caught in a trap- begging to die.
He deserved this.
You're a selfish prick for wanting to die.
You're doing this because, deep down, you want to make them feel bad for you.
He cries harder than ever before.
Maybe it's the truth. Maybe it is.
You're weak.
Your fear is your weakness.
You're afraid of it.
You're afraid of everything.
You can't do it.
Coward.
"No."
His tears dry and he stops his weeping. The voice grows silent.
"I don't want to be afraid anymore."
He pulls himself up from his bed. He walks to the closet on his left. He's kept it in there ever since. Just in case.
A long folded rope.
He knows what to do. He's practiced the knot. The ceiling fan should be sturdy enough to hold his weight.
He's terrified. He's afraid of the pain that comes.
He stands on a chair. Noose around his neck. He knows that he shouldn't be like this. He doesn't want to die yet.
He wants someone to hold him when he goes away.
Now or never.
Do or die.
He kicks the chair off his feet. Terrified screams and laughter emanate from his mind. He tries to scream with them, desperately gasping for air as his eyes begin to tunnel. Millions of horrible images flash before him, one after the next after the next, his life playing back to him as a slideshow. His father. His guardian. His employment. His only friend. Her.
This is wrong, He manages to think, I don't deserve this. I don't deserve this. I don't deserve this! Why?
But it is too late. He cries harder than ever before in his entire life.
His world goes dark, and the voices whisper one last time.
