Dweeb; Septiplier

3.4

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Mark: Saturday, 31 January
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A/N; Trigger Warning — this chapter will contain images, descriptions and/or events that will depict suicidal thoughts/actions. I encourage you to read at your own digression.

Jack and I were in the room together which was odd, but I guess it being a Saturday and all, there wasn't anywhere else for him to go.

"How's Chinese sound?" He asked me.

"Sounds good." I replied.

He nodded and picked up his wallet. Letting out a sigh he head towards the door. He stopped for a minute and without looking at me, spoke. "I'm gonna leave."

"I can see that."

"No, I meant drop out." Jack sighed. "I don't really, care anymore. I don't know it's weird I guess. So I just thought I would let you know so you didn't get all confused while I was packing my stuff."

"Are you going back to Ireland?" I asked.

"Dunno." He said. "Don't think anyone can afford a plane ticket for me and all of my things to get back."

"Oh." I said quietly. "What are you going to do until then?"

"Don't know." Jack said and left the room after that. I had a feeling that he didn't have anywhere to go and instead of saying this, he was just going to say "I don't know" over and over.

I felt my stomach doing flips at the idea of what was happening to Jack, did I do that? No, he did it to himself.

I let out a sigh, no, I did it.

I ruined his life, and now I felt guilty about it? Was I being selfish?

I didn't really know what to do, it was hard already as it was but I think now the idea of being undoubtedly alone, well, it scared me more than another things.

I felt myself crying, crying like I should have all along. I held it all in, I thought I was some big shot by getting back at Jack but no.. instead I dug my own grave.

Grave.

The thing you lay in when you're..

God, am I too weak to even say the word?

The hole, it's the hole, it's what.. five or six feet deep? And then the dirt covers you like a blanket.

A bed.

A grave. A bed.

In a cushy and expensive casket — it just might be the most expensive thing you  be own.

Who would even bother putting me in the ground? What happens to the people who have no on? Who stands by their grave and mourns? Who gives eloquent speeches on the story of your life?

So who would go to put me in the ground, to give me a blanket of dirt, to cry and say, "He was taken too soon."

No one, really.

Maybe people would come, maybe. They'd stand there dry eyed though. Thinking, "Well after what he has done? Yeah, he deserved it."

So what now? Hah, that's a funny question. I know "what now" and I think I've known the "what now" for some time.

Because I've planned for it.

It wasn't hard, to be fair. The note was only two sentences. I had no remorse, my only regret was what I ruined when I was alive.

The rope, well it was already tied. I hung it from a pipe on the ceiling and prayed that if it couldn't hold my weight the gas would kill me.

I stood on a box that was filled with papers for classes I would never have again.

Fun word: never.

Never. Never again.

I felt bad for Jack, after all, he would be the one to find me. I wonder what he would do? Maybe the sight would repulse him, and he'd gag and vomit. Maybe he'd cry? No that's not the one.

Maybe he would stand there, mouth agape, unsure of what to do until his trembling fingers could reach for his phone. Maybe he'll try and lift me up, take me down, something like that.

Or maybe — and I'm simply spitballing here — he'd find a rope and use the same box and swing left and right aimlessly beside me.

That one didn't bother me as much as it should; I'm not saying I wanted Jack to kill himself. No, far from it. But what would I know? I wouldn't know if he did or didn't and to be quite honest, it would never be on my conscious. Because my conscious wouldn't be there.

The other world, I won't speculate on it. I won't say what I think it is, and I don't know if I want to find out. But I know there's nothing for me here.

Absolute nothingness.

Absolutely nothing.

It won't be too different, but better nonetheless.

So I put the small envelope about a foot in front of me, and I threw the rope around the pipe, tied it the way I knew how and tugged on it some. To make sure it wouldn't come undone. I grabbed the box from under my bed and I placed it directly underneath the rope. I stood looking through it for too long.

I was running out of time, but I just couldn't do it for some reason.

I took it slow — but it was too slow.

It felt like I was moving in slow motion, no matter how fast I tried to move.

I slipped my head through it, and took a deep breath.

"Just kick the box, Mark." I voiced out loud. "That's all you have left. That's all that's left. That's it. Just, kick it."

No matter how much I commanded it, it didn't happen.

Eventually, I did though. I lifted one foot off the box and with the other I moved the box away from me. I was doing it slowly but I slipped and thinking the rope would snap my neck — that's what I thought would happen at least. But no, instead it was choking me. It was choking, I was choking!

My legs kicked around I moved and instinctually I pulled at the rope and tried to get it undone but I didn't want it I asked for this, I asked for it!

And then, my hands dropped and I felt my body stop moving and.. then..

It got very dark.

AN:

SPOILER ALERT:

Don't lose your shit he's not gonna die.

Happy spookaween.

I have had a surprisingly bad day.

Author-Chan

(Lol I really like calling myself that)