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"It was strange - how dying always made him feel so alive."
in which hope mikaelson leaves and takes a piece of everyone with her
TRIGGER WARNING: MENTIONS OF SUICIDE
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It was strange - how dying always made him feel so alive. Because death tasted an awful lot like cherry chapstick. And it wasn't dark. It was so so bright. Blindingly so.
It was strange - how he only felt like he could breathe when he was drowning. How the gasp of air that filled his lungs when he resurfaced always felt like disappointment.
He wasn't trying to kill himself. He didn't like being dead. But, God, did he love dying. The flashes of bright light swimming in ocean eyes. The water that pooled in his body was calming. The surge of panic he used to feel absent now. Sometimes he felt like he was floating. Away from all his problems. Dying was simple. He liked simple. And life was not.
It's quiet tonight, it's always quiet. He likes it that way. His childhood was filled with the ever-present crackle of static on the T.V. and murmurs that turned to shouts. Beer bottles crashing onto the floor, belts coming undone - he liked quiet. The soft ripples of the lake are the only sound to keep him company as he ties the rope in a knot he wished he knew how to do because of boy scouts.
The first time Landon Kirby kills himself he is fifteen. The words orphan had been scrawled half-hazardly on his locker. The fourth time this month. He's on a first-name basis with the janitor. His name is Terry. Landon thinks he's the closest thing to a friend he has. Which is sad. Because his whole damn life is a Greek tragedy. He laughs at the thought now. If only he had known what was to come. When he had come home that night, stomach empty and roaring, with nothing but vodka to greet it, he had made a plan. The house was empty today. Tom's left the T.V. on and even though there is no one else in sight, Landon still fears what will happen to him if he shuts it off. So, he leaves it, blaring the games' score, and makes his way to a bedroom he felt lucky to have when he first arrived. This was the first room he had to call his own. His other foster parents had hoarded kids. Shoved five in a room and left them to their own devices. He pulls out a rope from under his bed. And a chair from the dining room. Feels guilty for taking the chair from the dining room. Get's scared of how Laura will react if she finds her house out of place. Puts it back. Stands on the top of his bed. Ties the noose he's known how to do since he was thirteen when he first thought about this. When he watched tutorials underneath blankets with cigarette holes. His legs shake, but he steps off from his bed.
Laura 's the one who finds him. Face slowly turning blue. Not dead, but dying. She doesn't scream or scramble to get him down. She drops the full bottle of wine clutched in her hand and watches the broken glass spread across the floor. He can't see it. Can't move his head enough. But, the sound of the loud crash makes him jump. Thrash in the air and the movement seems to wake Laura up from her stupor. Curses start tumbling from her gin-soaked tongue. "Shit, shit, shit. What the fuck, kid? Fuck, fuck, he's alive. Shit, shit, where the hell is my fuckin' phone!"
