GAME OVER: a Be More Chill fic

Level 11

(A/N: Major trigger warning for self harm, alcohol, blood, and use of the homophobic "f slur".)

"Jeremy, please don't do this."

Jeremy ignored him, staring stone-faced at the ceiling. He couldn't bring himself to speak anyway.

"I can help you fix everything. Just get up, put the alcohol down, put -- put the knife away, and let's talk. We'll sort through this and repair your relationship with Michael."

Jeremy remained still and silent, staring, unblinking. Barely breathing. Just lying there on his bed, staring at the ceiling. He couldn't even cry. You've done enough.

"Jeremy, I warned you not to go find him. Step one was not complete -- "

"Fuck you!" Jeremy exploded. "Fuck you, and everything you ever did for me. Fuck. You."

"Your father is asleep," the Squip hushed. "Keep your voice down."

"It doesn't matter." Apparently he wasn't done crying, after all. "None of it matters. Michael's gone." His voice broke and then he was sobbing again.

"He's not dead, Jeremy. You can win him back with my help -- "

"I don't deserve him back." Jeremy closed his eyes and drew a shuddering breath. "He's right. After all I did, he should never forgive me."

The Squip sat on the edge of the bed and placed a hand on Jeremy's knee in an attempt to comfort him. "Let me help. We can -- "

"I don't want your help, asshole," Jeremy spat.

"Jeremy, please, you're being irrational," the Squip said sternly. "Put down the bottle before I make you."

Jeremy sat up quite suddenly and stared the Squip directly in the glowing blue eyes as he uncapped the bottle of vodka and took a long drink. The shock and anger and vague fear in the Squip's eyes was worth the coughing fit that followed.

"Jeremy!"

"Shh, you'll wake up my dad," Jeremy muttered sarcastically, taking another sip as the sputtering subsided.

The Squip tried to force Jeremy to drop the bottle, but as Jeremy hadn't eaten anything and weighed about ninety pounds, it didn't take long for the alcohol to start affecting him, and it hit the Squip even sooner.

"This is -- un idea mal, Jeremy. Escucharme -- I'm already starting to malfunction." The Squip struggled to speak as his face started glitching. "J-Jeremy -- no me gusta tu -- decisions right now. You're not in the right state of mind."

Go away.

The Squip disappeared. Adios, tostadora estúpida. Jeremy took another sip. He'd swiped the bottle of Ultimat from the pantry without even thinking of what his father would do when he found out. Honestly, he didn't care. Let him be grounded -- the only thing he'd be missing out on anyway was Michael.

Michael. He was hurting, badly, and Jeremy blamed nobody but himself. He was the one who shut him out again, ignored him for weeks, then came crawling back like a pathetic parasite. If he'd never started crushing on Michael, neither of them would be in this situation.

Basically, their friendship was fucked and it was all his fault.

Jeremy kept drinking until the room was blurred from the alcohol as well as the tears. This is bad. Bad bad bad. He wasn't even sure which part he was talking about -- the situation with Michael, being drunk, stealing his father's alcohol -- but it didn't matter. He was guilty on all three counts.

Jeremy shook his head, hard, which proved to be another bad idea, as his stomach rolled unpleasantly. He set down the bottle in preparation to be sick, but managed not to throw up on himself.

He leaned back on his elbows, trying to shut out the nausea, and his left arm bumped something hard and cool and dangerous. The knife. He contemplated this through his own dread for a moment before picking it up with a shaky hand. 

He hadn't even realized he was still crying until now. Tears splashed onto the wide blade as Jeremy examined it. Sharp, but not serrated. Perfect.

It had been so long since he'd done this. He thought back to nearly three years before, traced the thin white scars on his arm with his finger, and relived every emotion. Waves of guilt and mourning washed over him as he remembered. That was when his mother left. He'd been sure it was his fault -- he was all they ever seemed to fight about, anyway. "Jeremy doesn't need to hear this." "Jeremy needs to learn to make friends." "Jeremy this, Jeremy that."

He'd hurt himself the day she didn't come home from work. Badly -- badly enough to scare him away from it for a while. He'd bled through a few paper towels and was debating on asking somebody to take him to the hospital when it finally stopped, and he told himself that was it, that he'd never put himself through that again.

And he believed it, because he thought nothing could be worse than his mother leaving. He believed it, until now.

This was worse.

Jeremy pressed the cool steel to his skin and cut his wrist three times, just like that. One, two, three. One for taking the Squip, one for hurting Michael, and one for being completely pathetic. He watched the blood trickle down his arm onto the blanket. It was therapeutic and vulgar at the same time. He hated that he enjoyed it.

"Hey, Squip. Squip," he slurred. "Look." Frowning in concentration, Jeremy dipped his finger into the blood and wrote the word "fag" down his arm as the Squip materialized. "If I wasn't half-gay, I wasn't... love Michael and not be drunk right now."

The Squip calculated rapidly, and found that Jeremy's blood volume was still adequate and that whatever he'd just done wouldn't kill him. But he definitely needed to get cleaned up and dress those wounds, or else probability of infection skyrocketed. He sighed in relief, then spoke. "Escucharme." The Squip groaned in frustration. He'd forgotten about the language glitch. "Necesitas ayuda. Llámalo Michael en el teléfono ahora."

Jeremy looked down and gasped. "Squip... Squip, I'm bleeding."

"Sí, necesitas ayuda -- "

"That's blood. There's lots... lots of blood." Jeremy blinked hard, but it didn't stop the room from swaying underneath him. "I think I'm gonna pass out."

"No, no, llame a Michael!" the Squip urged, but to no avail. Jeremy was fading fast. He tried to shock Jeremy awake as a last-ditch effort, and still, nothing -- the smell of blood and the memories it dragged to the surface were just too much.

"Jeremy -- necesitas -- " He was disappearing quicker than he could speak. He looked down at his pixelated hands and knew he had to act fast. The Squip frantically tapped into Jeremy's phone and sent a text before he and Jeremy slipped into drunk, disoriented darkness.