Hopeless (Dan Howell X Reader)

Stressed Out - Twenty Øne Piløts

Thank you kitsunez for all their votes and lovely comments! Thank youuuuu!

~2 weeks later~

"Hey mum!" You smiled at the screen of your dimmed laptop, your mums confused face taking up the light.

Her face was contorted into a confused expression as her eyes travelled around the screen. You supressed a giggle when her eyes landed on you and her whole face lit up like a kid on Christmas.

"(Name!" she exclaimed, clapping her hands together in glee. You waved at her, and began to talk about the nonsense your mum loved to spew.

It wasn't until sleep hit you like a brick did realize how late it had become. And even though the sun was still sitting awkwardly in the background of your mums home, the London night had taken a drizzly turn. Darkness circled your windows, little fairies taking up their nightly duty of leading the way for the lost in the sky and a small cry of pain dusted against the window.

"Mum, its getting late... I better go." you yawned, stretching your arms above your head to empathise your point as your mum continued to blabber about the cute boy at your old university. She said she had saw him while shopping and gave him your number. You rolled your eyes, certain chocolate eyes flashing across your head.

You gulped, rolling up your sleeves to scratch an itch. As you did this, a mild sadness swept across your mothers face, like a weight had dragged down all her happiness.

You quickly pulled your sleeve down and rubbed the bottom half of your face in irritation. Your mother looked at you in pity, you didn't want her pity.

You had told her this but every time she catches even the slightest glimpse of your arms, her mind wanders back to that night she found you hanging from the ceiling fan.

Just as she went to speak, you slammed your laptop shut and rested your heated head against the cool metal bed frame.

You swallowed the lump in your throat, suddenly not tired and hopped out of bed, setting your phone on charge.

You trudge to your kitchen, not caring as the clock on the wall chimed a silent 2 am. You pulled open your cheap fridge door, the dull light revealing all the goodness that lay beyond.

I mean, if we weren't meant to have midnight snacks, why is there a light in the fridge?
You sighed, pulling out a small low fat strawberry yoghurt and ripping the lid.
You lick the flimsy tin lidding and then proceed to take baby bites of lumpy strawberry goodness.

You quietly walk over to your almost deserted living room and take a seat in the worn down pink sofa with missing springs. Gently snacking on your yoghurt your mind wanders back home and back to that night. That oh so terrible night.

The lights were dim, it was dark. That fact had stayed with you, it was dark.

The night was cold, a chilly bite to the already freezing air that surrounded your skin. You swallowed the dry lump that had formed in your throat, trying your best to push the voices to the furthest points of your mind.

Do it. They screamed.
For gods sake do it, whose going to miss you anyway?!
Ugly.
Not worth it.
Just do it.
Do what?
Why, kill yourself of course.

You sucked in a sharp breath, folding the note in front of you in shaking palms. You had read it so many times, had written it so many times that you didn't have the words to express the notes itself, as it held all the words you could ever want to say.

Your final goodbyes, the last love you held for your mother and father, (any possible siblings you have) it held all the names of your "friends". And it held the bittersweet anger of those who had pushed you this far.

It was too bad they weren't the ones to push you off the chair.
Their voices were.

"Hey, look at her. What's wrong with her?"
"I dunno... Maybe she's autistic."
"She's soooo ugly. Why would anybody want that?"
"Should we put pins in her shoes?"
"What is she? Five? And she still watches those weird youtubers?"
"Emo!"
"Have you seen her arms? Oh. My . God. Hideous."

Your grip tightened on the rope in front of you. It was old, and covered in dirt and mildew. You hate taken it from the tree outside your house, it used to be a rope swing you had played on as a kid. But everything comes to end.

Like tonight. It was all going to end. The sadness. The pain.
Your hands tremble wildly as you slip the rope around your neck. Some dirt crumbles down your top and you shiver, it already hurts. The rough tough grip of the rope around your slim neck.

The ceiling fan was high up, you had used a step ladder to reach it, careful it didn't turn on in the process, and now you stood, on the third step of the ladder, your knees trembled and the tears were a salty poison down your cheeks.

You had to stand on tiptoes so the cold rope didn't pinch your skin.

You pulled the note out of your jean pockets, reading over the words you had taken hours to write.
Names and places you had always wanted to go, or see, or meet.

"I'm sorry mummy... I'm sorry daddy... I'm sorry (siblings if any).... I'm sorry." You repeat the words over and over and over again.
"Goodbye." You do it swiftly, you kick your legs backwards with force. The ladder stumbles away and clatters down with a loud crash.

The air escapes you in a rush. And a fiery burn captures you. Your eyes widen and you think for a moment I lived in pain... Now I have to die in it?

Yes...