Oneshots and shit

Yay Depression

!! Major Trigger Warning!!
Descriptive self harm and suicide. This was vent writing.

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Y'know that feeling when you're so empty you can physically feel it?

Thats how Maverick felt.

He had no appetite, couldnt sleep but never wanted to wake up, couldn't seem to feel anything and just couldn't take it. The dull ache in his chest and the sickened feeling in his stomach just got too much and he didn't know what to do.

It'd started a few days before, what started as a joke turned into Remington scaring him. His partners thoughts were getting worse, he knew it. The things they'd said about themself and the way they thought was too much for Mav to do nothing, which resulted in a lengthy message to their mother.

Now, Remington was taking steps into getting therapy.

And Mavrick felt sick.

Not because his partner was getting help, but because he'd done something he hated himself for. If anyone had messaged Mavricks parents about his own mental health, he would have hated them, but he'd just done exactly that to his own partner. What's worse, is that's not the only reason he felt like this. In a fucking putrid way, he felt jealous. He didn't think his parents would react as supportively as Remingtons did. And his actions were his own fault anyway. He'd taken those blades to his skin, he'd taken that tie and pressed it just a bit too hard against his neck, he's the one who had the ability to get help but just hadn't taken those steps. It's his own fault he isn't in therapy himself, yet he felt jealous.

He always knew he was full of shit.

Despite the fact that his partner needed him right now, his emotions had dropped since he'd sent that message. He was clearly incapable of putting himself aside, even at the most dire times. No matter how many times Remington said it was okay, he knew it wasn't. Remington would be better off without him. He'd find someone new to love, someone better. Someone who cares for him and treated him how he deserves to be treated. Mav is just a selfish prick who needs a fucking reality check.

And this was it.

Today, he stood.
In the bathroom, blade on the side, next to a bottle of pills with paper in hand.
His shaking hands held the mess of words in front of him, he was usually good with his writing, but this was a direct insight to his thoughts. Like his brain was put directly onto the paper, though, that might be pretty traumatising.

A sigh escaped his lips, as he placed the paper in an envelope labeled with his partners name and rested it aside.

Now was the time.
He couldn't bring himself to cry, even at this moment.
He didn't even shed a tear as he picked up the bottle.
He simply did what he needed to do.

He swallowed the pills, a few at a time, honestly trying to give himself time to back out of this plan. Or maybe for someone to find him and stop him.
But it never happened.
Instead, he finnished those pills and moved on to the blade.

He gently wrapped his fingers around it, and moved it to his wrist.
He'd self harmed before, but never this deep. He'd never cut over his wrist. But hey, there's a first time for everything right?
He pressed down, hard, feeling it dent his skin and start to break it already.
Then he swiped.
His skin pulled apart, showing a space of gaping white before filling with blood.
Not enough.
He moved to the same space, taking a breath in before applying more pressure over the same space, wincing, then seeing it gape further and yellow escape from the cut, blood pulsing out of his skin.
Not. Enough.
He pressed again, the pain becoming worse, but being dulled by the adrenaline that was now pumping around his veins.
This time, blood sprayed out, routinely pulsing along with his ever-slowing heartbeat.
Thats it.

His head was spinning, and the corners of his eyes darkening. His stomach dropped as his vision turned black, no longer seeing the mess of blood around him. His breathing was laboured, shallow and few breaths still being taken, his body trying desperately to keep him alive as he tried desperately to just die already.
There was a distinct ringing in his ears, but it didn't cover the sound of the door opening downstairs, aside his partners voice. They weren't meant to be there.
They weren't meant to see this.
Remington turn away, please.
Go home.
Remmy, please
You shouldn't see me like this
REMINGTON GO HOME

It was at this moment, Maverick felt his last punch of deep regret, and the last breath leave him.
But he'd gotten what he wanted.
He'd died.

---

"Hey Mav!" They shouted, walking through the door to their boyfriends house. Yeah, they weren't meant to be there, but they knew Mav was home alone and they thought it'd be fun to surprise him.

He thought something was off when Maverick didn't run to the door, or even reply.
Had he gone out?
But the door was unlocked.
He's too paranoid to forget that.
Maybe he was asleep?
Yeah, that seems likely.

And so they climbed the stairs, running up as quickly as possible, excited to see their boyfriend.
They'd just gotten some new, more feminine outfits that they were so happy about, Mav was always encouraging them to wear more fem stuff, so they thought they'd do a bit of a fashion show.
Cringy, yeah, but they were in love.

They reached the top of the stairs, crouching down to pet the angry looking cat on the landing, smiling, until they saw red in their peripheral vision.

They turned their head in the direction of the red, seeing it was comming from the bathroom. Suddenly feeling like they'd been punched in the lungs specifically.
And they begged.
They fucking begged that it just be paint.
Or that there's some sort of explanation.
But no.
As they pushed the door open, they saw an image that they thought would never forget.

Maverick, pale self looking paler than ever. His own blood pooled around them, soaking his clothes and into his hair.
An empty pill container was on the side, next to a blooded blade and a letter.

A letter addressed to them.

Remington felt their heart drop. In their mind they were screaming out to their boyfriend, but in reality they were stood, frozen. All they could do is hyperventilate and stare.

They felt their palms sweat and their eyes water, as they reached to the phone and dialled the emergency number.

"Hello, this is 999, how can we help you."

They book a few breaths

"I need an ambulance to 12 mikdane Street."

"An ambulance is on its way, may I ask the situation and if you're alright?"

"My boyfriend is dead."

The operator was saying something, probably to calm the person staring at the inside of their boyfriends wrists. But they just couldn't tear their focus away from their lover dead on the floor. Even when the ambulance showed up. Or when the ambulance people swarmed around them. Or when someone was talking to him. Hell, he didn't even turn to look at the people bringing a stretcher in.

Because fuck, his lover was dead on the floor.

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No, I'm not okay :)