Affliction | ✓

vii | him | 2

WARNING: very dark theme (suicide attempt, to be more precise) please skip if it's a sensitive topic.

***

2.5 months till NYE, 2016

his whole thought process is a constant flux of degradation. he hates himself, hates himself so much. all he had to was apologise, be considerate about it but he couldn't. he fucked everything up. he grew attached.

he'd fallen in love with her.

he paces his room, his fists clenched. how could he have allowed himself to just blindly fall for her when he knew that she was just pitying him. that she would never look past what he did to her, would never see him as someone who she can like, forget love.

he hates this, hates this feeling, this hatred, this jarring sense of suffocation that seems to be cutting his air supply, hurting him and pulling him in.

he gets it, he truly 100% honestly seriously gets it now. it's karma, right? it has to be. he wants to laugh at the irony of it all if it didn't seem to make him burst at the seams, tears falling slowly. it had been years since he had cried, the tears clogged up within his body but the hopelessness he feels, the despair at how lonely he is urges the onslaught of tears to come crashing down.

he wants to die now. he doesn't care that there's still more than two months left, doesn't care that the merger he worked so hard for will be projected and he'd be dead, doesn't fucking care that the person he loves will never, ever in his wildest dreams ever love him back.

he pulls it out, the bottle behind the microwave, hidden for God-knows-what reason considering nobody visited his home. Trazonil-50 it reads on the bottle. a benzodiazepine, the pharmaceutical guy had said. very helpful for insomnia, he'd said with a cheerful smile. he'd bought it with an innocent concept in mind, that'd he'd be able to have a dreamless sleep. nada. his mother's face still haunted his subconscious and he couldn't even physically get up so he was stuck and it felt an awful lot like sleep paralysis. he'd pushed away the bottle after night 1 of usage.

but now the bottle in his palm is eerie, sinister, on the brink of something dark. he knows there's no turning back. why is my heart beating so hard? he couldn't be afraid of death, could he? not after that life he had led.

he twists the cap, counts the pills. one, two, three, four, five, six, seven, eight, nine, ten, elevan....he counts upto 50. deems it an appropriate number. pops them in handfuls, chugs vodka from his fridge, shrugs and drinks the entire fucking thing. has the stupidest urge to call his father. haha dad, look at your illegitimate son now. he feels slightly lightheaded. it's only been ten minutes. he opens his fridge, grabs another bottle of vodka and chugs it.

his movements feel sloppy now, sluggish. he wants to claw at his skin till it bleeds, till his fucking impure blood stains the carpet. too tired, he thinks as he falls to the floor. he can feel spasms racking his body, vision blurring. tired, tired, tired. he wants to scream, wants to cry, wants to tell her how much he wishes he could take all those hurtful words back, wish he could take back time.

what the fuck am I doing? it's the clearest fucking thought he's had. he heaves himself up with surprising strength and oh, he's bleeding.

he doesn't know how but he drags himself to the bathroom, leans over the toilet seat. it takes him three seconds to hurl everything out. looking at the curdled puke makes him regurgitate more, the half dissolved pills swimming in his toilet bowl, he vomits out a lot, vomits for a long time, probably vomited out last week's lunch. fuck, he's fucking nauseous. his head's spinning like a little bitch but he manages to shimmy out of the bathroom. he leans against his bedpost, breathing heavily.