Euthanasia (Kellic)

3: The Questions

Hey guys:) Trigger warning for suicidal thoughts for this chapter. Also I'm ill as fuck and I'm still writing for you guys so appreciate that shit okay?;)

Every Thought Leads To A Rather Permanent Ultimatum

The words muddle together as the black ink creates smudges and spillages onto the crisp white paper. The ink spreads out into an array of dark purples and browns, blurring my letters as they faded into distorted words and the words jumbled into nonsensical sentences.

My head was pounding; I couldn't think straight and I hated every second I would spend with my fountain pen pressed up against the paper. I pushed hard with the nib of the pen. I hoped the ink would sink right through the whole book and Miss Bitchface would have to clean up the ink explosion that would no doubt occur as soon as she pealed the dampened cover open.

What I was writing was bleak and held no importance, it was just letter after letter, word after word, carelessly trying to fill this final A4 sheet with meaningless garbage vaguely relating to Nelson Mandela. He was a great man, fighting for rights and stuff, but I didn't admire him as much to write a five page essay within a night for some snobby teacher that would grade me badly for it, no matter how much effort I did or didn't put into it.

I found myself at a halt, everything falling from my mind as I lost my train of thought. I groaned, holding the paper out at a readable distance and started from the top of my last paragraph, attempting to refresh myself with whatever the hell I was writing.

"South Africa's first black president Nelson Mandela died at the age of 95. Nelson Mandela led South Africa's transition from white-minority rule in the 1990s, after 27 years in prison. He had been receiving intensive medical care at home for a lung infection after spending three months in hospital."

How must it feel to die?

The thought just popped into my head. I wasn't too sure how or why, but I knew it was there and it was more than unwilling to budge.

Would people care if I died?

This one struck me a little harder: I truly didn't know the answer and I wasn't exactly that sure if I even wanted to. I highly suspected people wouldn't, but I didn't want to think that not even the bathroom regulars. Maia Newton, Davey Richards, Timothy Asterick? Would they care? I doubted that Maia would, seeing how heartlessly she passes from guy to guy; she's almost sociopathic in nature. Davey, I don't know: he was an alright guy, but he didn't really care for me, I was just another piece of furniture to him. Little Timothy, he... he would care, I hoped he would: sometimes I felt like I was his only friend and he was my only friend for certain. Would Sofia Olice, the Russian girl with a thick accent and a soft spot for cocaine bother to attend my funeral? She was possibly the most sociable of the druggies and I was satisfied with acquaintance. 

Would Vic Fuentes care?

From what he said the other day, it certainly sounded that way, but I doubt his words held any long term truth to them: no one really cared about me. It was only matter of time before everyone forgot, forgot about weird, old, Kellin Quinn.

I wished that I could disappear sometimes; wish it all away. I was in a love hate relationship with reality, I couldn't bare my life, yet I couldn't bare to lose it... or could I?

What did I have to lose?

I couldn't answer. I didn't want to answer. I didn't want to let the truth in; I had nothing to lose. The world could deal with losing me, in fact, the world wouldn't even care.

I had nothing to lose.

The world just had to lose me.

And before you could say, 'Kellin you're a bloody idiot, stop it!', I had grabbed my coat and was out the front door; the essay long forgotten about. I had quite more pressing matters to think about.

-

Over the years I came to realise that I rather liked sitting in front of the railings. I liked being reckless: I liked knowing that nothing was more permanent than what would inevitably occur if a gust of wind too strong came in my direction or some idiot came pass with a sadistic grin and even more sadistic idea. I liked putting my life in the hands of the world. The world never wanted it; neither did I.

I found myself glancing down at the highway a few dozen feet belong the bridge I was perching far too precariously off the end of. The street lamps illuminated the sides of the roads in perfect rows and the cars seemed to drive pass at a perfect distance from each other. It was all too intricate, too planned, too perfect; unreal, almost.

I didn't feel alive.

Maybe, maybe this time I'd finish off what the world had started-

"Kellin?" I shouldn't have recognised the voice instantly - Vic Fuentes had become a horribly major person in my life right now and from the far too much he'd previously seen of it, he could quite accurately guess what thoughts were racing through my head right now, and just what I was contemplating on doing.

I feel myself being pulled up and heaved over the railing by a strong grip. His brown eyes twinkled in the moonlight in a way that inticed me, made me trust him and that was my first mistake: it could all so easily be over in one fluid, simple motion, but of course God would have it so I'd passed up the opportunity.

"Please don't tell me you were about to do what I thought you were." His grip was still digging into my sides and I didn't exactly blame him: in my current mentality, I could quite easily see myself hopping over the railing and plummeting down to my death. I bit my lip, remaining silent. After a few moments, a sighed released from his lips. "Kellin," he paused for a few seconds, "why?"

I shrugged.

"Kellin why would you want to do this?" He shook me in his grasp this time, unsettling me a little, however thanks to school, I was rather used to physical assault and therefore it didn't phase me that much.

"Life's already killed me, I'm just finishing the deed." He seemed rather taken a back by my answer, but really, what was he expecting? A confession that he could easily get his fleets of prefects to solve and magically fix my life so he could stop seeing me in stupid places and having to say stupid things to try and comfort me that did little other than patronise me.

"Why, why do you think that?" He spluttered out after a few minutes.

"Because my life is empty and nobody wants me here."

"Kellin," he sighed, "believe me, I want you here."

Bullshit.

"Kellin?" This was my turn to sigh, "do you believe me?" I nodded, only to avoid some preachy lecture; I didn't actually take in a word that passed through his lips.

"Good," he grabbed me by the hand, "now let me drive you home."

I shook my head, but it didn't seem to be a question and I soon found myself in the passenger seat of his '67 Chevy Impala.

"Where do you live?" he asked me, starting the car before I could put my seatbelt on.

"Ugh.." I felt slightly uncomfortable telling Vic where I lived, scared that he might pop up at random times to check on me. In fact this whole thing felt strangely intrusive and I began to wonder if he was stalking me, I didn't ask him, of course, but the thought certainly didn't leave my head, in fact as time went on it seemed to get proceedingly more comfortable, lodging itself slap bang right where it was important. "38 Phoenix Cresent."

He nodded and sped down the road and I began to wonder what exactly would come of this. The one thing I knew however, whatever it was, it wasn't good.