The Truth Of The Matter

Armed And Dangerous

Okay, ya'll, listen up, please! Intense trigger warning for su*c*de in this chapter!

There is an in-depth description of the mental buildup to the su*c*de during this prologue, including trains of thought, descriptions of voices, and deep paranoia. However, it doesn't stop at the prologue, because that's what the chapter is based around: a family who died due to a string of su*c*des.

If you want to click away from this chapter, I understand. If you begin to have su*c*dal or harmful thoughts while reading this chapter, I beg of you, click away and do not read it.

That being said, if you're sure about reading this one, then go ahead and hopefully enjoy! ^^')

(Immediate TW: suicide, paranoia, gun. I'll tell you when it's over, don't worry)

His heartbeat was twice that of a normal, healthy one.

But then, he had already given up being normal. He had already given up being healthy. He was long past those, wasn't he? Wasn't he? That's how this worked, wasn't it?

His palms were damp with sweat, slipping off the cool metal instrument he was trying to hold onto. He wiped them against his trousers, his long, cracked nails catching against the fabric. He heard a rip but didn't care, reaching across his bedside to try and seize hold of the sleek, silver gun lying next to him.

His fingers shook, missing the mark several times, sweat dampening his fingertips and making them slip off of the little handgun. He gritted his teeth, trying to ignore the way his bottom jaw trembled, his teeth slipping and snapping against each other. The cold air swarmed around him, a harsh, painful contrast to his hot skin.

His eyes darted to the window. It was open, frost clinging to the window glass with white, crooked fingers. The world outside was a painting of white, snow covering the trees, the grass frozen stiff, caught in the unrelenting hand of winter.

What would the townspeople say if they saw him like this? His employees? His family, even? He was the ruler of a town, he knew that, he ruled it with money and fame and power. And beer. He sold beer.

He could use a beer.

Everyone in the town knew his name; drunkards and gentlemen; women of the night and well-bred ladies. He had seen people bow for him in the streets, awed by his prowess and all the dignity and legacy that lay in front of and behind him.

But now he was sitting on his bed. Nobody was bowing for him. Nobody loved him. The voices had told him that long ago-- why should I trust them-- they said that he didn't deserve to love himself-- did they say that, when did they say that-- he wanted it over-- what did that mean?

. . . he wanted to get it over with.

Life. Life was something to get over with.

Swallowing hard, he stood up from the bed, his knees wobbling underneath him. Darkness swarmed around his eyes as he did so; he had barely eaten anything in the last few days and his exhaustion was reflecting that.

Still, he made it to the window. His grasping fingers caught the edge of the window pane and pushed hard, the window slamming down against the frame and rattling the whole room.

The noise shot through his nerves, and he let out a little whimper as he collapsed back, his legs giving out from under him and delivering him back onto the bed.

There he sat for a long while, clutching his heart and panting as hard as though he had just run a race. His eyes were wide and wild, his pupils mere pinpricks swimming in a circle of electric blue.