Strange Times

Suicide Saturday

Authors Note:

Another potentially triggering chapter, this time with graphic depictions of a suicide attempt, self harm, & depression.

Viewer discretion is advised.

Mello's life had become tunnels painted onto walls. He thought he had a chance, he could fool himself into believing he could walk past the dark of the hallowed wall & reach the other side -to touch the sunlight again - to let it seep into his skin & warm his bones -
But he always crushed his nose on the unforgiving bricks.

His life was riddled with cruel jests, & taunting fingers pointing out the misery that brewed in his stomach & crushed his chest, because he wasn't some beautiful girl shattering her wrists like the poets painted. He was a boy. He was a miserable, catastrophic boy who brought chaos to everything he touched. He was destruction personified. He was doubt, misery, & wrath wrapped in flesh.

He'd given up on prayers. whatever plagued him was something to infect the mind, the heart, the soul with a chilling ailment. He couldn't bring himself to crawl out of bed. His studies had faltered &his grades slipped through his fingers like sand. Roger often had to stand in the doorway & warn Mello that he mustn't lay around all day. Roger chastised him for being lazy, scolded his lack of motivation.

Near would pass his room on occasion, only to see Mello gazing into a text book, palms hanging loosely off the edge of the papers. His eyes were no longer filled with determination. His gaze was glossy, void of life - empty. When Matt swaggered by he always stopped in the door frame, offering a sly smile & a joke. Mello had long since ceased returning the witty gesture. There was no banter, there was no bickering. There was only silence & uninterested grunts while he toyed with the strings hanging from his shirt sleeves.

The black clothe enveloped bruised skin, & scabs that littered his arms from where he'd sunk his fingernails in a little too deep -& dug some more. For the longest time, he refused to allow metal to touch him. He wouldn't bring a blade to crash down onto his skin. He'd witnessed the affects too many times already. But, recently, in a minute of pure rage ( the cause was unknown. He'd risen, mind scattered with terrible thoughts that compelled his veins to overflow with a boiling rage - even if he couldn't remember those thoughts for the life of him ) he'd broken his vow of leaving only nails &fists on his body.

His war cries had become actual cries as he brought his fists down to collide with his thighs & paint his skin purple, yellow, blue & black. This was his life now - If the way he only repeated the motions of the day to day habits could be called life. His prayers that god would turn the tears staining his cheeks into a fountain of youth so he could start over, go back to the beginning -were left unanswered. The rosary he'd held to his heart until a cross was imprinted onto his skin had been tucked away into an old shoe box & hidden underneath his bed.

He couldn't find his faith anymore.

There was no more motivation to keep himself standing, or any motivation to care for himself.

Maybe that had been tucked away somewhere, too. His blonde tresses fell to frame his effeminate chin in raggedy strands while his bangs clustered into knots over his forehead. He was tired. He was so, so tired of it all. No one bat an eye anymore when his door was locked, or when the room was silent. The air was always stiff, & cold. He was lost. He'd been lost for a very, very long time, but this time it was unlikely he'd find his way back - so he didn't even try. He was just giving up. He wouldn't allow anyone to see him continue withering away. This needed to end. This needed to be over with.

The only question, now, the only thing he had control over, was how to end it. He had an array of options, & held each in his palm at one point or another. He'd felt the length of a pistol weighing down his hand, the strands of a rope slipping into the crevices on his palm, cold steel running through his skin -

But those weren't his final choice. His final choice, his last act, would only have one witness - himself. Mello glanced at his mirror, noticing his disheveled appearance, & how his hair had been pushed around & soiled with tears & dirt.

He wipes his runny nose one last time. This was real. This was going to work. This time, it was going to happen.

Calloused hands trembled, making the plastic pill bottle gripped in his knuckles rattle. He'd stolen it, along with a couple others from one of the medicine cabinets. It took a few moments, a few heavy breaths & silent sobs before each of the bottles were empty & cast aside. Each handful of pills slipped down his throat with more difficulty than originally anticipated, but soon enough they were gone, & soon enough, he would be too.