Well I've done it, and I've done it with only minor problems. I've escaped from the hospital with only a few concerned stares, some sympathetic for my lost cause of a personality (which is growing older and older by the day until it fades into nonexistence, because right now I'm still as shaken up as the old Dallon Weekes always was), some the artificial smiles one would distribute amongst pedestrians walking past them on the street, some condemning me after realizing that the most common reasons for a teenager such as myself to be in a hospital is for a car crash and a suicide attempt, both of which are frowned upon in society mostly by the old people who think all we millennials do is party and wreck everything they "strived to achieve for us youngins".
To be quite fair, it's not like this is really my fault. Not the current Dallon Weekes anyway, because the old Dallon Weekes was suicidal and crazed and hell bent on killing himself, and I understand that and perhaps understand why he was that kind of person, but I'm nevertheless not that guy anymore. I've changed for the better, and I'm happier, though flavored by a ghastly amnesia that attacks the core of my personality, who I am, my identity, but still I'm not the Dallon Weekes who bordered on insanity just to dip his feet into its acid pool for laughs and then eventually splashed into its murky depths by accident (or maybe not so much on accident, as he was absolutely adoring the life of a headcase).
I only know what the nurses told me — my name is Dallon Weekes, I am seventeen years old, I am from Bordeaux, France, and they are sincerely sorry that I discovered myself in their clutches all alone, without any memory of why I visited this location in the first place, as if it could've been a simple mistake that mutated into a cause for me to stay there. They didn't tell me what it was that I did that landed me into this far too sterile facility, though, and wondering why has consumed my thought process from the hospital and down the sidewalk. Maybe they feared what would happen if I found, probably imagining me doing it again because I liked the idea.
If I can predict what transpired in the lives of the people who knew me, repeating that cycle is not something I wish to evoke, because if I'm in pain and I haven't the slightest clue what I actually did, then I can only assume that other people's experiences were way more monstrous than mine. God, what I menace I am to make people suffer like that. I don't deserve to put others around me through agony just because of my own stupid mistakes, my own stupid suicidal tendencies.
No, I am not certain that the old Dallon attempted to make a move on his life, take it and shove it into a coffin along with his body, but what else could it be? If the nurses were so worried about me finding out what I really did, then it couldn't be a car crash. What kind of idiot purposely enacts a car crash if it's not suicide, not the suicide that I must've committed but failed in following through? It has to be suicide, and it has to be weak, because I don't feel different, just out of my skin, estranged like I've most definitely always been, and this tingly feeling rupturing my bones is merely a common nuisance, right? I should be used to it, should be accustomed to disfigurement in my own body, right?
Even so, the sensation is still weird and gross and makes me feel out of place in an area where I should be the most at home, and that phenomenon carries with me down the street with a bottle of sparkling grape juice slowly slipping from my trembling fingers while my focus is trained on the crackers in my alternate set of fingers as they're transported to the house of a person about whom I do not know a single detail and am somewhat scared to find out, but the nurses at the hospital said that this man is the one who discovered my body lying inert on the pavement somewhere and is now my guardian, so I figured it would be nice to bring him a snack for his efforts, however terrified I am.
This street I'm strolling down is perhaps as daunting as a monster under a child's bed, because I know nothing about my environment due to my fucking amnesia that is starting to really piss me off due to my intolerance for a mild bit of frustration all of the sudden, as what is occurring around me is one to situate me in such a shock, and I fucking abhor the feeling just as much as I abhor the rattling of my bones, and I'm just really fucking afraid of what's happening around me. The birds swarming around my head are singing cheerfully, but to me it sounds like the screeching of an amateur violinist furnishing the hall in pandemonium. The bushes just look as malevolent as a villain in a movie, like they're anticipating the perfect moment where they can jump towards me for a kill. The street signs make no sense like they should, so I'm merely meandering around the neighborhood with only the map and the printed directions in my hand to guide me, checked up and down intermittently with anxious eyes (blue jay pops into my head for some deluded reason) so I don't get lost like I was lost before now and then shoved my present self into these circumstances.
I'm sure the man who viewed my lifeless body is a nice enough person (though he might as well be locked up in a contained facility after seeing what horrors I did to myself — you don't forget that kind of shit, except I did, apparently), but I'm still nervous as hell. What if he doesn't like me? What if I don't like him? What if he's abusive? I've had enough abuse in my life from what I can tell, primarily from my own brain, so I'd rather not be under the "protection" of an alcoholic beater that only saved me from suicide because he was scouring for a reward that he probably didn't receive.
Calm yourself down, Dallon. This is your job, right? To repair your battered mind. Yeah, it is, so I snatch a deep breath from the air as I realize that I've wound up right in front of my new guardian's doorstep, a nice little place typical of English neighborhoods where the houses hug each other like they're those dynamic duos you see in middle school, and just as I knock on the door, I detect a faint shuffling as if my new guardian is actually a 50s housewife just caught preparing cookies.
The man that opens the door is not, in fact, an alcoholic beater, but a nice guy around the age of twenty-five with a smile as wide as la Seine glazing a face freshened in youth and glee. "You must be Dallon!" he greets, somehow pleased to see the remnants of a suicidal headcase at his door.
In an anxious response, I lift the sparkling grape juice and box of crackers to invite the extremely welcoming man to them, and he accepts them, then he ushers me inside with a clap on the back that disperses my bones to the fury of an earthquake humming within my body. "Anyway, I'm Kenny Harris, and I promise I'm not some abusive troublemaker or anything."
Well that soothes my anxiety. At least he's not out to hurt me, but at what cost? There must be some flaw in his character, some aspect about him that will turn me away, if only a smidge. I shouldn't be so willing to convict him, but it's always better to be cautious than to be murdered in your sleep.
Kenny strides towards the kitchen to sever the cap of the sparkling grape juice from its slender bottle, that same smile everlastingly planted on his rosy lips as it rouges his cheeks as well, and I ignorantly broach a flammable topic just because I'm that kind of curious fool.
Fingers creeping down the kitchen table as I wait for his activity to be accomplished so that we can talk upfront, I murmur just loud enough for him to hear, "So...what happened to me? Why did I wake up in a hospital of no memory of what the hell I did to myself?"
I imagine that this is too early in our relationship for me to be mentioning the fact that I tried to fucking kill myself, but it's been aggravating me ever since I was discharged from that pungent hospital, so it's not like I can let the matter rest until I earn my answer. I think I'm entitled to my past, even if most people detest reflecting on it.
Kenny glances up from his job, more surprised than angry with my intractability. "We just met and you're already asking about this? Don't you want to know other things, like where you'll be sleeping or or whose pictures are on my mantel or why my house smells like manuscripts and tears?"
I wring my hands together like a towel damp with Kenny's aforementioned tears, nervous by my lowkey outburst. "Sorry."
Kenny waves my doubts away. "No, kid, you're right. You deserve to know."
He doesn't say anything else, only unscrews the bottle and pours some of the lavender liquid into wine glasses as if I'm not a seventeen year-old who will probably become dependent on anything presented as alcohol because of my sick mind, but eventually he speaks, tongue knotted in sidelined dread.
"You, um...you took some pills, and..." The edge of Kenny's lip tweaks itself upward, pleading for me to connect the dots, so I do, and my shoulders trip from a ledge steeper than anything I've ever seen before.
And all I can say is oh.
~~~~~
A/N: I love kenny sm he's my precious bean
aesthetic: pretending to do math while I talk to my friends about raisins having weaves made out of mold
~Dakotamold (that makes no sense I'm sorry)
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L'Appel du Vide (Nocebo Effect P3)
FanfictionL'appel du vide: "the call of the void", the demons who tell you it could all be over. Dallon Weekes tried to kill himself -- he doesn't think it's a big deal, seeing as the amnesia swept over him before he could register where he was. He doesn't ha...
