When Wyatt tried to pinpoint the exact incident that correlated with his mental illness cocktail, like his hospital-recommended psychiatrist asked him to, he always drew a blank. There wasn't a specific predicament, per say, that prompted the erratic sadness. All Wyatt can recall is waking up one morning wanting to do nothing more than go back to sleep. He hasn't been the same since.
At first, he brushed it off with petty excuses, like Tuesday was because of the change in the weather and Thursday was because of the sad movie he watched the night before. But, then those random episodes became days of skipping his college classes, missing work, and ignoring responsibilities. He stopped yelling obnoxiously at his television while watching soccer. He stopped calling home to his mom at least twice a day just to chat. Hell, Felix even stopped inviting him to the bar because Wyatt continued to decline.
At some point in time, Wyatt stopped being Wyatt.
The brunette dips his head under the chilling bath water, embracing the muffled noise as it rushes to fill his ears. Puffing his cheeks, Wyatt pushes his toes up against the metal faucet to keep his body from floating to the surface. When he first clambered into the bathtub with wet cheeks and an empty chest, the water was scorching hot. He can only imagine how much time has passed for the water to become cold enough to give him chill bumps. But he doesn't mind it.
It was his last bath, after all.
His hair is still wet as he dresses in a pair of bright yellow boxers and a black hoodie. He remembers reading a shitty Tumblr post about Van Gogh eating yellow paint chips to "cure" his depression because, in his logic, it would instill the happiness inside him. It seemed far-fetched, and Wyatt's sure this was the same guy that supposedly bit someone's ear off, but it was worth a try. Wearing yellow boxers would have to suffice though since the walls of his apartment were a plain off-white shade covered in various stains.
It's 6:04 pm when he checks his phone to find a plethora of messages waiting to be read. Unsurprisingly, he ignores them, turning his phone back off before he can dwell too long on who they're from. His stomach growls and, as if on cue, Doc, his cat, meows from his doorway, cocking his head curiously.
"What's up, Doc? Ya hungry?" His eyes soften and his face becomes a little less stoic as he pockets his phone and walks to the kitchen. He refills the small cat food bowl by the small cat bed in the corner of the small living room in his small apartment. Doc rubs his head against Wyatt's wrist in appreciation and Wyatt returns the gesture by gently scratching behind the feline's ear for a moment before hesitantly returning to his bedroom.
It's ridiculous, really. Wyatt had drafted, trashed, and rewritten so many suicide notes in his life, he'd be considered an author by now. And yet, as he sits hunched over the desk in his bedroom, water dripping from his hair (or maybe they're tears?) onto his notebook, he can't seem to push the pen against the paper to begin writing. His hands are shaking and his leg won't stop bouncing and why now, after this whole afternoon of feeling numb, does he feel so much grief?
This day has been planned for three months, now. It's circled, x's marking the days before it, and labeled "suicide!!!" on the calendar above his bed. He'd done this unsuccessfully twice before, but he tells himself they were just practice runs leading up to this: the real deal.
This is what I need to do so I'm not sad anymore, he thinks to himself, squeezing his eyes shut as he grits his teeth. Gripping the pen hard to mask how much his hands are trembling, he begins to write.
After he struggles through the one for his mom, the paper covered in his rushed handwriting (though it's much neater this time because only a dick would write an illegible suicide letter) and tears, he pushes through ones for his sisters and his unborn brother and one for Felix and his boss and his favorite professors. He even scribbles something down for Noah just in case he saw Wyatt's face on the news and wanted an explanation even though they haven't talked for two years. He doesn't know where to address it though, so he decides to send it to his mom for her to deliver.
He writes until his hand is cramped and his eyes are completely dry. Folding then pushing them each into their own envelopes, Wyatt sighs heavily, all the tension leaving his body as he stands from his desk. He'll leave them at the post office on the way to his final destination.
It's 7:16 pm and Mr. Sterling, Wyatt's neighbor (he wrote a letter for him too), looks delighted to host Doc for "a few days" while Wyatt's "on holiday." He smiles tiredly through his lies, but Mr. Sterling barely notices, watching Doc waltz around his apartment with confidence. Reluctantly, Wyatt hands him the cat bed with his food, bowls, and favorite toys sitting inside.
For a thirty-year-old not-yet-old-but-not-young-anymore adult, Mr. Sterling looks twenty years his senior dressed in a huge, ugly patterned sweater and oversized khakis. His grey eyes are hidden behind the thick-framed glasses upon his crooked nose. Wyatt must've interrupted him while he was grading the papers of the seventh graders he taught at the local middle school. He's living the adulthood Wyatt imagined he would live. But, then he got sad and the future became unfathomable.
Once silence hangs between them after a few minutes of small talk, Mr. Sterling hugs him, clapping a hand on his back as the younger man loosely wraps his arms around his torso. It's a good feeling, a warm feeling, to be touching someone (a man) other than his cat. He'd really miss this.
"Hey, Wyatt? Have fun on holiday. You deserve a break from the everyday hustle and bustle to find yourself some true happiness."
This time his smile isn't forced but it's short-lived because he can't go on a holiday because he's about to kill himself.
His apartment is squeaky clean, with the exception of his bedroom, and all of the lights are turned off by 8:43. He grabs the letters, the paper crunching with how tightly he grips them, and wow, he's really doing this. He drops his keys on his kitchen counter with a loud crash and sweeps his eyes across the dark living room to subdue his last minute second thoughts. Quietly, the door clicks shut behind him.
He drops the letters off directly at the post office on his walk to his final destination. When he was a young, edgy teenager that only thought about death, Wyatt never thought he'd be one to jump. He contemplated pills and drowning and even shooting himself but the WikiHow he read with teary eyes had jumping off a building at the top of its list. From there, he delved into several different research pages about what height you should jump from and why and what time of day and how and suicide was really complicated.
So, here he was, on a nice summer evening, heading towards his death. The sun has already set, the last of its flames licking at the dark sky. Wyatt is reminded that he's wearing just yellow boxers and a hoodie when a warm breeze tickles his upper thighs. The city is in the strange state where it's far from being asleep (that's at 4 am) but not as awake as it is once the sun rises. It's dormant and quiet, losing its stereotyped image of party life and loud traffic. (Yellow) Taxis whiz by, carrying unknown passengers to unknown places, and the few people littering the sidewalk barely take a second glance at Wyatt's unusual outfit. It's a big city. Nothing matters. No one matters. He doesn't matter.
During moments like this, when Wyatt isn't really here and is, instead, just going through the motions, he allows himself time to dwell. He mostly thinks about Noah, but little moments like dragging Felix home, giggling drunkenly at nothing, from the bar at 2 am, and laughing with his sisters at home in the cozy living room while drinking hot chocolate, and just being happy slip in between. Although he enjoys thinking about kissing boys in the way he only had been able to try with Noah, the memories of his sisters are always the sweetest.
Wyatt reaches the building in a zombie-like state and begins climbing the stairs before he has a chance to second-guess himself. He doesn't cry, doesn't think, just climbs, one foot at a time with one hand braced on the cold metal stair rail.
He becomes self-aware as he stands on the rooftop, his arms spread and his temple damp with beads of sweat. He read that if you were to jump from a building tall enough, you would lose consciousness before you even hit the ground, making for a peaceful death. Wyatt felt bad for whoever would find him mangled and mashed into the pavement.
His last thoughts are really just that, ideas floating around his brain, and they suddenly rush at him full force, tying themselves together ao Wyatt doesn't know where one ends and another begins.
Good thing he didn't eat anything because he'd most likely throw up over the ledge. Noah would laugh at that. Fuck Noah for being such a good boyfriend. Fuck himself for being a bad friend to Felix. All Felix wanted was to hang out with his best buddy and gossip about who they thought were banging each other at work. Who will find him? Should he have written them a note as well, like "Hey, sorry for the mess :/"? Is this considered littering? Is suicide considered a crime?
His feet leave the ledge, surprising himself, and he enjoys the wind against his face and through his damp hair as he falls and man, this is a long drop and when is he going to lose consciousness and a mess of casual thoughts before oh my god. All of his emotions come rushing back, fear overpowering them all, and he panics. His hands ball into to fists, his stomach is dropping and shit, he can't do this but he already has and he can't even open his eyes to see how close he is to hitting the ground and ending his life and holy fuck why the fuck did he--?
Wyatt loses consciousness.
