Scooby had contemplated it for a long time. It was time now. He took out a needle and overloaded it, sticking it deep into his neck. The pain and bleeding intermingled with the joy of blessed release from life, and the world became cold.
But instead of succumbing to the cold void, he wakes again.
He is back in the comfort of the Mystery Machine, on the couch that he usually sleeps on.
But this time there's no Shaggy.
He blinks to see Shaggy's getting crushed by the wheel, a final gasp of air as a deafening crack vibrates throughout his body, his head thrown up as he spews out a thick red liquid.
He cries to Scooby as his arm flies off.
"Help me.."
Scooby jumps and rescinds back on the couch whimpering in fear. He didn't want to see this anymore, but it kept looping in his head, stuck on rewind. He shakes his head, wanting it to stop, wanting it to finally go away. It did, and he found himself on a street, watching the sign on a crosswalk.
YOU ARE READING
The Existential Nightmares of Scooby Doo
Teen Fictionif this is what I will be remembered for, then so be it.
