A/N: In the same universe as my Synchronization/Affirmation series
He was alone now. Staring up at the ceiling, he sighed as he observed the dark stain on his ceiling. He didn't feel like getting out of bed today. He never felt like getting out of bed. He groaned and pulled the covers over his head. The light shone through, nonetheless, and he grumbled as he fell out of his cave. He threw on a dirty t shirt and ripped jeans. Stumbling to the bathroom he rinsed his mouth with Listerine and rubbed at his eyes, trying to make the tiredness disappear. He staggered to toss on another shirt and slip on more pants. He can't live with himself. Tears sting the corners of his eyes as he falls back onto his bed. He doesn't want to live anymore. He rolls over, squinting at the ceiling. That little stain kinda looks like someone spilled coffee. Making a mental note to show this to his mom, he lay there thinking.
Suddenly, the thought hit him like a train. He wanted to die.
He didn't know why, but all he knew was he wanted to die right then and there. He can't help suppressing a dry sob as he lay in his bed, crying, curling into himself. He hated himself and he really had no reason. All he can see is her face, the tears shining sadly and his heart breaking slowly. He cries and sobs angrily, hating the ghost of himself for doing that to her. To him. To everyone. His heart takes another massacre as he curled in farther, trying to protect the tender pieces of his broken heart. He felt like a puppet, lifeless and paralyzed. After a good twenty minutes of wallowing in self pity, he pitter-pattered down the hall and stairs into their linoleum kitchen. No one was home, the house was cold. Mom was at work and dad was out drunk. He could take that gun in the cookie jar and put a bullet straight through his head if he wanted to. Staring morosely at the porcelain jar, his stomach turned. Making way towards the bathroom, he sunk down near the toilet, closing his eyes and emptying his stomach.
This was the 4th time that week. Wiping the slime and gunk away from the corner of his lips, he found himself once again in the kitchen. He walked over to the cookie jar, his footsteps echoing throughout the perfect house. The perfect walls seem to be closing in on his brain as the perfectly clean kitchen sickened his stomach once again. Forcing himself not to vomit, he took the revolver out of the jar. He knew he wanted this, he knew he wanted to die. The thought lingered in his mind for months, and the idea stuck with him forever. Shaking horribly, he put the mouth of the gun to his temple.
He stood for ten to thirty minutes, praying to Mary, Allah, Jesus, Muhammad and any of those obscure gods he seemed to have lost hope in. Finally, with shivering hands and a pounding heart, he clicked the trigger, waiting to fall into the lulling black. He wanted to fall, instantaneously pronounced dead. However, the click just echoes through the kitchen. Confused, he checked the gun. The bullets were gone. Disgusted, and cursing his luck, he threw the gun back into the jar haphazardly. Scanning the kitchen with woeful eyes, he noticed something.
They were out of coffee.
Shaking his head, he dragged his feet across the floor to the bathroom, ready to face another lifeless day.
