Knee Socks and Booty Shorts Don't Mix

Chapter Twelve: Desperation

It had officially been a week since Keith had gone to school. Shiro had dropped by to see if he was doing okay, only to be given the cold shoulder and ushered out of the house. Keith spent most of his time working out or dwelling in his own damning thoughts.

He hadn't slept or eaten much, he didn't have a proper reason to do either, nor the courage in his heart. In only a short seven days he had lost a surprising amount of weight. His face had sunken and had become pale, the dark circles under his dull eyes had deepened and overall he looked sickly.

He was currently vegged out on his couch, curled up in a ball with blankets piled over him; the air conditioning was on full blast causing him to shiver even under the multitude of covers. He stared off into the dark living room, the curtains were closed and the lights weren't on. He was engulfed by the beautifully devastating darkness.

Keith sighed, figuring he should get up and do something. He slowly made his way to the fridge, the blankets held around him and trailing behind as he walked. He opened the door languidly, aiming to get food or drink, but not even knowing what he had.

His eyes scanned the cold plastic shelves for a moment before landing on something shoved away into the very back of the refrigerator. He stood staring for a long time, having a mental debate on what he should do. His instincts were saying 'who gives a damn, go for it, just do it, what harm could it bring?' while the more rational side of him was spitting out fact after proven fact about how it could affect his health.

He bit his lip, knowing full well what harm could come to him, but he couldn't bring himself to care enough. What was the point in caring? No one else did. To hell with his rational side. It was in his nature to be impulsive. And to add he had nothing left to lose.

The mentally tormented teen's hand desperately grabbed at the aluminum cans, pulling one out nervously. His hands shook in doubt and his stomach felt queasy as he pushed the fridge door closed. He was terrified, but yet it brought a strange sense of calm to him.

He opened the cheap can quickly, staring at the opening apprehensively before bringing it to his lips and taking small sip. The feeling of the liquid was strange and mostly foreign to Keith; he had only ever had alcohol one other time, but that had been when he was a young kid and he had been taught better since.

When nothing tremendously terrible happened immediately afterwards, he ignored all warnings his mind set off and began to drink the alcohol quickly, as if it was any other drink. The cans were left by Shiro, who had apparently forgotten to take them with him over the move, and Keith was suddenly very appreciative for that.

He figured out rather quickly that he was a lightweight. He hadn't had much beer and yet he was already feeling it. His troubles drifted slightly, and he welcomed the reprieve with another long gulp.

He spent the rest of the day drinking until he was intoxicated out of his mind, passing out on the floor by the couch, crushed cans littered around him.

---

The next few days went similarly, he found a small stash of alcohol that Shiro had kept hidden from him and it was enough to last him a while. His time was now either spent working out, in impaired bliss, passed out, or hating himself so terribly that he wanted to die.

Shiro had come by again, and thankfully at a time when Keith had not been inebriated. Only when his older brother came this time he was not alone, a determined Pidge and a meek Hunk followed and tried to talk him in to going back to school. Keith refused and ran them out of the house with promises of self harm and a whole bunch of guilt tripping.

He just wanted all his troubles to go away. The alcohol was effective, but not enough. It was only temporary. He needed permanent. Without any thought, he had begun to cut. His intentions were only to stop the pain coming from his own mind, but soon it grew out of control.

He was sick. Sick in all forms of the word. He couldn't stand this any longer. He wanted an out. It wasn't like he hadn't been handling these thoughts a while before his fight with Lance, but once he heard such terrible words coming from a person he was growing to trust and maybe even feel something for, he couldn't handle it. 

His thoughts spiraled out of control and he was dying if he wasn't dead already. He kept making one wrong choice after another, all he wished for anymore was to just make that final decision.

Keith wasn't sure what he was still holding on to; what was stopping him. He supposed it was the fear of it not being the right answer, but he was quickly losing that fear, and that in itself was scaring him.

He felt as terrible as he looked, if not worse. He was useless, no, he was even more than that. He was annoying, a pest. Lance had clearly shone some light on that fact.

He couldn't do anything right. So he cried. He fought with himself, always losing the battle.

He felt nothing anymore. Just plain, cold apathy. He drank himself into misery, locking his doors and letting no one in.

He knew Shiro had a key, but he couldn't find himself considering that fact. His entire meaningless, pathetic life came crashing down on him, killing him from the inside out.

He decided brashly one night, after another miserable week, that he was going to end it. It would all be over soon enough. Excitement bloomed in his chest at the thought of salvation.

Suicide was divine to him. His plans were made quickly, but thoroughly. He could hardly wait, it was like it was going to be Christmas and he was a six year old child.

He left a pile of thoughtfully scribbled notes on his desk for his friends as he walked to his bathroom. His phone rested as useful as he considered himself to be somewhere on his messy floor, entirely forgotten for days, messages overflowing in his inbox.

He sighed, his heart sinking as he shook in anticipation. His nerves were going haywire as he reached for the first bottle of pills he could find in the cabinet.

He simply pushed down and twisted, staring into the sea of medication glaring back at him. He poured a dozen or so pills into his hand, realizing by the familiar shape and color that it was acetaminophen. He smiled. This would get the job done.