Austeled one-shots

Well? Dont leave him hanging!

Context: they're on somewhat civil terms, but they don't like each other. (They still fight occasionally but not as violently as before.)
TW: Suicide attempt, self harm, ext.

3rd person.

They'd been civil for a while now, at least 6 months at this point. But back when they were enemies, Austin got the "marvellous" idea to erase the bug in the code which allows Eteled to come back after death/ deletion.

He said it was to quote, unquote "make it a fair fight". This point was absolute bollocks though as Austin teleported every two milliseconds to avoid attacks.

But this new lack of immortality sparked something in Eteled. He already begged for the sweet release of death, and for his soul to ascend from this hellish purgatory.

But that desire was within reach now. All it took was one manic episode, and all this gut wrenching pain would be over.

And that's where this little story of ours starts.

Eteleds pov.

My breath was shallow. I was curled up in a ball in the corner of my room, eyes hazy and movements shaky.

I hated this. I hated all of this. I hated being like this. Living like this. Acting like this.

My blades. Where were my blades..? I suddenly stood up without a second thought, scouring through my bedside table to find them. My shaking got even more violent when I couldn't find them.

I dropped to my knees. grabbing the bottom drawer, ripping it out of its place, like how I wish my soul would be ripped out of "my body".

I dumped everything out onto the floor, starting to hyperventilate as I shove things around. The room was dark, so it was hard to see too much.

I let out a frustrated noise, throwing the drawer against the wall; making it smash into a bunch of pieces like my cold coded heart.

I yank out the second drawer, seeing the lamp above wobble. I pour it all out, and rummage through it. No blades.

Anger fills me. My shaking gets more violent as I become more hostile. I grab the final drawer, yanking it.

The lamp falls off of the table, smashing all over the wooden floor. Several small pieces of glass cut into my skin like I were an animal on a platter to dissect.

The contents of the drawer didn't contain a blade. I grit my teeth, letting out a growl like scream. Then I remember. The glass. I could use the glass.

I roll up my sleeves, shaking as I look at the older scars on my wrists. Two months clean. Not anymore, I think as I bury the glass into my wrist, creating a gash.

Seeing the blood stain my impure skin felt like both a weight off my shoulders, and yet a hydronic press on my heart.

I keep going, creating more gashes in my wrists. It's not helping. It's not working. Why won't it fix me..?

FIX ME. FIX ME PLEASE... I throw the glass at the wall in resentment. I wanted to die. I wanted the pain to stop. I want it all to stop.

My eyes trail down to the rope, intertwined within the rest of the contents of my drawers.

With trembling hands, I pick it up. I stare at it for a moment, eyes hazy with tears. Such a simple thing could end all my suffering so easily.

I walked over to the other side of the room, staring at the screwed in hook on the ceiling.

After a bit of struggle, I shove the chair under the hook, tying the rope to the hook, then tying the noose.

I stare through the loop, like I was looking through the lens of an ouija planchette, looking into the afterlife.