𝐒𝐓𝐘𝐃𝐈𝐀 𝐎𝐍𝐄 𝐒𝐇𝐎𝐓𝐒

The End Of All Things

au - you'll figure it out.

trigger warning: suicide mentions.

read authors note for serious talk.

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Insufferable pain tormented his mind, the howls of the past creeping up on every move he made with meticulous, nefarious reminders. The shallowness of his heart morphed him into something—someone he didn't want to be; regret and shame towered over him and casted a cavernous shadow with him falling into the abyss of it. No escape. No cure. No hope.

He sat in external silence, the revolver planted in his calloused hands uneasily as he stared down at the chipped, wooden floors of his bedroom. A note sat beside him, inked sentences formed together that explained why he would do it. Why he would never be the things he wanted to live up to. Why he would even bother taking his own life just to prevent misery in other's. It is for the best, he told himself. It's always for the best.

His mind shouted ambiguities at him, telling him to put the rod up to his head and pull the trigger, to end it all. Another voice, small in the back of his mind, was quiet and gentle, enduring his feelings and easing him away from what could be a mistake. But he didn't listen. He didn't want to listen. All the pain...all the endless suffering...all the things people did to him, it made him not want to hesitate to do it. Everything they said, did, were made him into the cheap, pathetic person he is now. He hated himself. He hated that the people he disliked the most morphed him into someone who didn't have a purpose; he was someone who wasn't cared about enough to know his darkest thoughts.

He was just a passing thought. He was known to be existing but was never known as being someone, having a purpose, helping others. He kept to himself and was content to do what was right for him. No one deeply cared for his mental health. He had friends but they weren't there for him. They were just used as a label just so he wouldn't feel sorry for himself when he reminded himself that he had no friends. He tried over and over again in attempt to make himself believe people were there for him. But time passed, people changed, and shit got real.

The white noise of his bedroom was suffocating his lungs, creating a high pitched irritation to flood through his veins and pulse through his heart. The faint beat of a song courses through his skin, a party taking place in a house just around the block; it was a party he wasn't invited to and a party where he wasn't wanted. Typical. By sophomore year, he got used to the feeling of neglect and never acted upon it. He couldn't shift someone's hatred for him no matter how hard he tried.

He wasn't sure when the whole school started hating him, but it was long enough ago to remember it vividly. Friends dissipated, people snickered, boys played mean pranks, girls ignored him. All because he came out Pansexual in his freshman year of high school; he was treated as if it were a sin to like people despite their race, religion, gender. The kids in his school are always telling each other to love all and spread peace and awareness, but when Stiles Stilinski does the literal, he's suddenly disgusting and a piece of trash.

They didn't understand. No one understood his feelings, not even his father, who never looked at his son the same after coming out. He was still the sheriff's boy, he was still himself, but no one seemed to care and just labeled him as different, which was suddenly a bad thing to be. To embrace himself and love who he is is what he was told to do, but when doing so, it turned into bedlam and now he wasn't accepted for something he was told to do. It was a vicious cycle, really, always remembering that everyone hated him for something he couldn't manage to control; it was cruel and hypocritical and all he wanted to do was end it all at this very moment.

He built up the confidence long enough, first pointing the gun at the mirror in attempt to get rid of the one thing he hated looking at: himself. With that being done fairly quickly, he paced and paced and cried with every ounce of misery he held within his lanky body. He let out the steam but still felt the anger residing in his heart and the guilt rising in his chest. He was guilty for who he was, embarrassing his father and friends as becoming someone who wasn't picture perfect. He became someone that was an embodiment of his father's worst fear—flawed.