BBS One-Shots

Counting Down

Ten.

Ten seconds before he fell. Ten seconds, moving by as slow as sticky syrup dripping down the side of a warm, breakfast meal. That was something he hadn't eaten in awhile. Syrup.

Nine.

Nine fleeting moments, going as fast as they came, which was slow, and yet, they were gone in an instant, never to be felt again, for he was the only one doing this very thing in this very spot at this very moment.

Eight.

Eight times he'd almost done this before. Eight times he'd sat in the bath, thinking about his wrists with a blade in his hand, or how he could go under the water and never emerge. Eight times he'd considered getting a gun, or accidentally taking too many of his depressants.

Seven.

Seven times he's been on top of this same building. Seven times he's sat over this edge, like he was now, or been standing close to the edge.

Six.

Six days he had thought about this. Six days ago he'd been told he was worthless, and it had hit him harder than ever before. It had come from his lover, and it had hurt. Somewhere inside he knew that they hadn't meant it, they were just mad and had yelled it then stormed out the door, but he couldn't really believe that. Six days ago, he'd decided he'd do this. It was his birthday, after all. Why not do one satisfying thing and leave the day he came?

Five.

Five senses he'd never experience again. No touch, no sight, no sound, no smell, and no taste. No more cuddling or gentle touches. No more 'sight for sore eyes', no messy days. No music in his ears or the sound of laughter - though, that had left him days ago. No more inhaling the familiar cologne of the person he loved. No more tasting, no more savory or sweet.

Four.

Four more seconds, only four, until he could leave. Please, let these seconds go by faster.

Three.

Three people, close people, that he'd disappointed. At least, the three most important people. There were a lot more people he'd disappointed in the past, but only those three counted. God, so many times. He wished that he'd never done the things to them, but he knew he couldn't fix it now.

Two.

Two pieces that his heart was in. Split in half, that's how he felt. Just a hole in his chest where his heart had been torn out, crudely split in half, then shoved back in, completely non-functional. He was sitting on the edge of the building, two legs dangling over the edge. He stood up, back to the door on the top of the building. He started to tip forwards.

One.

One person tipping off the top of an old building, only to be caught by an arm, one that was shaking from the strain. He was pulled up, his body limp. He didn't want this. Why was this happening? Why wasn't he falling? He should be dead.

A body held him close, and they were shaking violently. Tears dripped down the face of the person who had done this, as in, the person who had kept him alive.

I'm sorry, I'm sorry, over and over like a mantra. Being screamed. You're not worthless, I'm sorry, I'm sorry. He pushed away, but the grip didn't let go. Then, he shoved, hard, and the body holding him fell to the ground. He turned, stepping back up to the edge.

"I'm sorry! Please stop!"

The man turned around, a sorrowful look on his face, but he looked calm. He looked content, almost.

"Three."

"What? What does that mean?"

"Two."

"What?! What, no- no!" The person scrambled to their feet. Too slow.

"One."

"NO!"

It took him only seconds to hit the ground.