November 1st (Frerard)

17: Wednesday, October 17th

Asphyxiation. What a lovely word for such a horrible thing. What an odd thing to ponder. What a horrible place for your mind to go. What a way to go.

There are many, many ways in which to kill yourself.

Asphyxiation was by no means the easiest to accomplish, but was definitely the most freeform, but not Gerard's preferred way to go.

Drowning was of course his number one choice, and what he focused on the most, but like any concerned suicidal person, he had of course put some thought into a back up plan - a second choice, and a third too.

Although, he did half reckon that if he walked into a lake and make it out alive that if he was simply just not intended to die. Not that Gerard had ever believed in any kind of God or meaning behind the universe and life, but still, the thought of immortality had haunted his mind: like an awful ghost, perhaps one of a tennis player from the seventies, who'd died in his sleep in a bedroom that had been much nicer than what it was now, a generally shitty excuse for representation when it came to the horrors of death - useless, harmless, but annoying, barely even there, barely even real. Perhaps he'd sit there and repeat the hook of an old pop song for hours upon end, and drive you insane in doing so, but he'd never get up, he'd never cause you any real harm, but he'd watch as you went insane, he'd watch as they sent you away, and he'd smile.

Gerard wondered just how sleep deprived he had to be in order to personify immortality as the ghost of a tennis player from the seventies. Gerard laughed aloud, because it was four in the morning, and despite how thin his bedroom walls were, no one could hear him.

Because in that moment, it felt like no one in the entire fucking world was awake.

The most effective methods of suicide involved shotguns, handguns, any guns, and if Gerard felt strongly about anything in his life, it was that he didn't like guns. He didn't like loud noises, he didn't like mess, he didn't like triggers, he didn't like bullets, and how fucking artificial it all was. Guns scared him - there was no beauty in guns.

There was no beauty in killing himself, though.

But he desperately wanted there to be.

He desperately wanted to rationalise it all, but it was all based solely upon the imperfections in his head - it was his fault, and it wasn't beautiful at all.

But at least drowning himself was far less messy - he had that to say for himself.

Drowning was however, statistically, because yes, Gerard had researched this, sixty percent efficient, and took a hell of a lot longer than a bullet to, fuck, anywhere, did, but, the ocean defined his life in a way he never wanted a shotgun to.

The ocean was one of his first memories. He wanted it to be one of his last.

And he knew for sure that he'd never felt comfort in a gun.

Gerard's second choice was pills.

The pills he didn't take anymore and had stocked up in the back of one of his drawers. At first, he hadn't been saving them, just hiding them, but he reckoned that he might as well put them to some use, and if it came down to it, he'd take the whole lot - and fuck, he had a lot saved up by now, and in earnest, just taking the pills seemed like a much easier way to end it.

But Gerard yearned the sensation of water filling his lungs: a burning without a fire - something tragic, something beautiful in his own mind, and horrific in others, and he was well aware that he was beginning to romanticise, to even fall in love with the idea of his own death, but it was not that different from falling in love with the ocean.