Tronnor One-Shots

Suicide Note

*Trigger Warning* So I tried not to make this graphic, but a lot of people found it very emotional, so I'm adding this now as a warning for anyone who may be bothered by suicide and talk of suicide.

It has been two years. Seven hundred and thirty days; forty-three thousand eight hundred hours; two years. I've donated most of his clothes to goodwill. I've stopped making fish tacos. I've burned his book and the bridges I had with his family alike. Desperate measures have been taken; I'd do anything to finally let him rest in peace, but I still relive everything, over and over again.

I still feel his ghost in my bed. I still wear his beanie and keep his Converse in the porch, neatly next to mine. And I still think backwards as I walk down that hallway; I think and I worry and I wish I could forget. I can't use that bathroom anymore, because it's haunted.

Because it has that bathtub.

Because it has razors of that brand.

Because he did it.

He actually did it.

He cut his arms.

He cut his thighs.

He held his head underwater, knowing very well he wouldn't sprout gills. That he wouldn't survive it, and that he wouldn't be a miracle case. Saved in the last moment? No. He never intended to lay in a display-case hospital bed, his family watching this living boy with blue lips and an instant ticket to suicide rehab, afraid to touch him. He knew that. I don't think he wanted it either, because he made sure he didn't get it.

He didn't want life, so he died. Two years ago, at twenty-five years old, my Connor just...died.

In physicality, he was the dead one but, through the collateral damage, I died in every other way. My once augmented heart is shrivelled, and the places on my body that were so used to his touch are equally cold. They miss him, shivering as I cry myself to sleep, as I dream of his zombie fingers caressing my cheek. I dream of a resurrection, a crank I could wind that would set the world spinning in reverse. Bring him back to me, it's all I want.

I miss his laugh.

I miss his floppy hair.

I miss his love of cats.

I miss the way his I love you's were the most genuine when he said it wordlessly.

I miss his honeydew eyes.

I miss his cutesy shrugs, the upward curl of his lips, his morning breath.

I miss his smile, his slight underbite, his pretty hands, his short legs, his silly measures taken to photograph. I miss his cuddles, I miss his kisses, I miss his loveImisshissupportImisshisgigglesImisshispassionImisshisvoice

I JUST MISS HIM.

I keep his suicide note in our safe, under our wedding funds. It sounds morbid, but morbid has been my life lately. On days that are the worse, I even pull it out and read it over. Just to try and experience him. See? Morbid, and I can't seem to get away from it.

Connor, he always loved poetry. That passion stuck with him until the end, as it seemed. His suicide note was a poet's last words, written very carefully in his delicate, scrawling cursive. It is the only poem of his that has ever made me cry.

As a broken person,
As a person who cannot stand
On their own
Two feet,
I stumble to my escape;
I fall as I leave,
Because I know I've disappointed you;
I love you, but I must go
To where I don't
Feel
Hurt
Speak
Anymore.

My mind is an arsonist,
It has not passion anymore, except,
For destruction;
Burning my wills,
Smoking out my hopes,
Uncontrollably;
And with irony,
Nothing dries up:
My tears are endless,
Blood runs fast down my skin,
I am being drowned,
Literally and metaphorically,
Until I die,
Literally,
So damn metaphorically;
I feel empty;
I hurt inside;
I speak of none of this.

I'm sorry, I'd tell you,
But apologies are best spoken
And I can no longer speak;
I can only write
With stiff joints of a leaving lover,
One without much explanation,
And my poetry is lacking,
Because I sob as I put down the words;
As I put down the words, I
Imagine you,
Free,
Without the burden
Of your fiancé's depression;
Though I feel love,
Though I am hurting you,
Though I know you want words spoken,
I don't know how to live anymore.

My happy little pill,
Take me away;
You wrote that,
With a heart so full of me,
Pumping hope through your body,
Hope that I would get better;
But I write this,
With a heart so full of you,
Pumping hopelessness,
A giving up, because those lyrics,
They are an unfulfillable offer:
You can't dry my eyes,
Nor bring color to my skies;
And it's not your fault,
Because I feel in grayscale,
No pills,
Not you,
Nothing can end this,
Only me;
I feel the passing coming,
I hurt, but I can't stop,
I will speak with the force after death.

And if there is none,
No God, no heaven,
Nothing of earthly concept;
No life after death,
Then I will be one with oblivion:
I will be darkness,
I will be the beginning of the universe
And the ending,
I will be everything and nothing at once;
Incomprehensible,
As I am meant to be;
So let me go as fast as you can, my love,
I know you will dwell,
But know that I loved you until the end,
That I am the stars above you:
I feel bound to you,
I will hurt no more,
I will speak to you again,
Someday.

Yes, I will dream of him. I will yearn for him, I will cry and I will miss him like he was an organ I can't live without. Losing him has diseased me, because his love was revolutionary, and he basically rebuilt my entire life. This house; ours. This world; ours. This heart and all these memories; ours. It is so hard just going back to mine. But, as ripped and torn as I am, I do get better by the day. Because he's right; I do need to let him go.

Because someday.

Someday, we will be oblivion together.

****
*gurgles apologetically*