[ ✑What did you do? ]
SEND "Wʜᴀᴛ ᴅɪᴅ ʏᴏᴜ ᴅᴏ?" AND I'LL GENERATE A NUMBER OR SEND A NUMBER (WITHOUT PEEKING!)
9.Yᴏᴜʀ ᴍᴜsᴇ ᴡᴀʟᴋs ɪɴ ᴏɴ ᴍɪɴᴇ ᴀᴛᴛᴇᴍᴘᴛɪɴɢ ᴛᴏ ᴄᴏᴍᴍɪᴛ sᴜɪᴄɪᴅᴇ.
—ᴀs ɪғ ᴛʜᴇʀᴇ had ever been such a prediction. Such an outcome in place, in thought. In fragments of paper flying in the wind. Not put to words, unnoticed and unexpected. Yet there he is. There is, the gleam of crystal against his wooden table — the desk he has spent countless hours by during the past years. Pale fingertips drum against the polished surface, as if infected by impatience, when all that actually lingers is the smallest hint of fright. His decision is a difficult one and one he has gone over twice as many times as any other. Maybe, it seems so easy to others because they might be careless, thoughtless. He doesn’t know. Because he hasn’t asked, doesn’t care enough to ask. But to him it’s difficult, because leaving — departing from the world he has grown so fond of, means he’s leaving so many things behind unfinished. He hasn’t written any letters, is going to give his loved ones nothing but a lingering question mark and a crevice in their own existence. He knows and for that he is ashamed.
But alas, going on like this is impossible. For, how much darkness can he contain, before it escapes his senses? And it takes over?
Some days, he’s more than sure that it already has. And perhaps, that is why he’s even considering this. Why he finds himself like this, with fingers slowly clasping around glass, glass that contains that which he is most sensitive to. At least, when it comes to the manner he intends to expose himself to it. To his skin, it it nothing more than a mere irritation, but through indigestion, it is most lethal. A peaceful way to go, no injuries, no external horror for whomever might glance at him.
Well planned, arranged so that he is to remain out of sight. Curtains drawn, lights dimmed. Silence. Deafening silence. The silence he wishes his mind could have held a bit more often. A bitter smile, a laugh at the tip of his tongue as he beholds his own shaking hands. He believes it to be cowardly, this way of escaping. But at the same time, he believes he has no other choice. there are too many memories, too many flashes. To much loss and so many voices he wants to silence.
They are all, dragging him towards an insanity he’s unwilling to face. Chains wrapped around wrists and ankles, preventing him from moving freely. Soul caged within words and forbidden thoughts — the fire in his heart suffocated. Allowing him to question himself more than before. Allowing these shades of grey to infest his usually burning, bright cerise and reds.
Glass is brought to pale lips, cold at first touch, warming up so easily. Hand still shaking, eyes wide open. Translucent droplets, gleaming at the corner of his eyes. One part wants to stay — to live on and continue breathing. The other wants nothing but to become one with the blackness, whispering his name in his sleep. Overpowering everything else and leaving him weak.
Awareness. He knows she’s there. He knows, but he has already gone too far to stop: crossed every possible line and fallen over the edge. The thorns in his heart can’t be pulled out, the cavities in his heart unrepairable and the monsters in his head impossible to satiate. Luring him closer, second by second. It burns so sweetly, when the first few droplets hit his tongue, eyes closing and hopes fading. Alongside everything he is.
He swallows more, hears the door fly open but he doesn’t bother to open his eyes. Everything is already hurting, stinging from the inside and out. Blood trickles from the corner of his mouth and when he finally finishes the vial and sets it back down, that is the first time he looks up at her.
Fear. Fear is twisting her features and he can see it, fingers stretched out towards her as he coughs, blood staining his chin and chest. Eyes, slowly ridded of color and gleam. She needn’t ask, for he knows she wants to know. Lips parting and words escaping, low — hoarse and whispered.
“I’m so sorry, hóvirág.”
A bitter smile and a slow flutter of eyelids. He tries to stand, weakened already and barely holding his own weight properly. Clumsy as he holds on to the table to keep himself upright. Glass slipping trough slender fingers, hitting the floor and shattering into millions of pieces.
“Holy water.”
Is the only explanation she gets, before fire sparks at his fingertips and he knows time is running out.
There is, rarely ever a remedy for a heart that no longer wants to beat. For a mind, that has given up the struggle to stay strong. Seeking ways to mend, is far passed. You weren’t, meant to meet me like this.
S̵͚͐a̴̜̋v̴̜̎e̷̤͊ ̶̯̋m̸̟̽e̴̞̾.̷̛̳