TW: suicidal ideation, suicidal thoughts, suicide note, suicide attempt(s), suicide plans in detail (including overdose, hanging, drowning, stabbing, starvation, jumping), past self harm, razor blade mention, gun mention, verbally abusive family, neglect, implied ED
The ceiling was white. The accent wall was red and the rest were a silvery white. Tommy was alive and staring at things in his room.
His eyes felt heavy but he kept staring.
Tommy stared at his ceiling quite a lot, thinking of all kinds of what ifs.
What if he took his medication.
What if his family gave a fuck.
What if he killed himself and let his body rot till his family found him.
He knew better than to do this. He knew that he shouldn't be going through the what ifs. His therapist told him not to think about the what ifs so much.
He stared up at the ceiling as his brain corrected itself. Trading out the what ifs for hypothetically.
Hypothetically if he took his meds thinks might be better. Or they might be worse.
Hypothetically if his family cared then he might not want to kill himself.
Hypothetically he was going to kill himself and let his body rot until his family found him.
God he hated everything.
When he realized he would never fall asleep Tommy rolled out of bed and pulled some clothes off the floor. After deciding they were clean enough (no big spots and it didn't smell) Tommy pulled it on.
He walked out of his room, past his brother's room and his dad's room and made his way downstairs. He didn't know what time it was so he was at least trying to be a little quiet. He made his way down to the kitchen, and when he turned on the light someone else said
"Jesus fuck you scared me." It was Wilbur. He was making a sandwich, in the dark. Why was he making a sandwich in the dark? "What the fuck are you doing up?"
"Couldn't sleep." Tommy mumbled and Wilbur rolled his eyes as he continued to make his sandwich. "Can I have one?"
"You can make your own." Wilbur grumbled and Tommy frowned.
"Ok then." He said softly and he looked over at the clock on the stove top, it was only 3am. God why was it only 3am. He was so tired and it was only 3am.
In the past year Tommy has lived with always being tired, always being drained. His family didn't give a fuck, and he didn't have many friends who noticed. He would tell his therapist about it, but his therapist would just say he was burnt out.
This wasn't burn out. This was waking up after 9 hours of sleep tired. This was no matter how much fucking sleep he got he was always tired so there was no point in even trying to sleep tired. This was he wanted to put a bullet in his brain so he could finally get some sleep tired.
It's not like his family would care if he did.
Tommy decides he is not going to make himself a sandwich, he was too tired to. Instead he sat down on a barstool and put his head down on the counter. His brain went back to the different ways he could probably kill himself if things get any worse than they already are. Hypothetically of course.
He could overdose on his antidepressants he doesn't take, he could slice his skin open with a razor blade he had hidden in his nightstand from when he used to self harm (he only stopped when Techno once grabbed his arm so tightly he began to bleed under his long sleeves.) He could go jump off a bridge, there was one only half a mile away that was directly above a lake. He could just go drown himself in the-
