Under Pressure - Septiplier

Chapter Thirty Seven

           Mark gets to his sixth period, tense and frazzled. His mind feels like a hive of bees being smoked out. It's been a few days since Jack gave him that piece of paper, and Mark's still deliberating. His therapist takes more notes these days, even though Mark talks less and less. Mr. Josh would tell him that he should reach out to Jack. Mark spent the last session organizing the Legos into colors and putting them in their own little boxes, rather than their usual pile of haphazard disarray. Mark doesn't play with the Legos during sessions anymore. However, he still fusses with them, breaking pieces apart, pushing others together. Whatever felt right.

It's a substitute today, so most kids pull out their phones and slouch back, ignoring the busy work the teacher assigned. Mark starts on it, headphones snug over his ears, and playing relaxing, uncomplicated music.

Someone knocks on his desk. Mark looks up with furrowed brows to see a few kids have crowded around his space. The teen slowly takes off his headphones but goes back to looking down at the paper on his desk. He doesn't like how many people are looking at him.

"Hey, do you remember when you had that freakout during the storm?" A girl asks. Mark doesn't bother with names that often since he rarely talks. The teen nods, beginning to tug at his pen and click it.

"Why did you?" A boy follows up. Mark grimaces and shakes his head. He doesn't want to talk about that. He doesn't want to talk.

"Dude, he asked you a question," another guy says. Mark reaches up and rubs over his ear a few times, grimacing. He shakes his head again, looking up at the ceiling instead of at them.

"You won't even look at us? Do you think you are better than us or something?" the girl asks, nose wrinkling. Mark winces and lifts his hands, shaking them and his head. He shifts uncomfortably in his seat, ducking his head to stare back down at the desk. Their gazes make him feel weird. His skin is too tight, prickly feelings filling every inch exposed to them.

"We know you aren't mute. You talk. Why don't you talk now?" One of the boy's questions sharply. Mark closes his hand into a fist and bites at his knuckles, rocking his legs side to side and fidgeting in his seat. He stares down at the crack between desks. Perhaps he can find a way to answer their questions on the floor.

"Creep," someone mutters, and the others nod, slowly moving away. They're disappointed and annoyed with him, that's for sure. Mark gathers his stuff up, shoving it into his backpack, lackadaisically, without order. Typically, he's quite meticulous about it. Normally, everything has to be just right. Mark shoulders his bag and goes to the substitute.

"C-can I go t-to the b-bathroom?" He asks, voice cracking and shaky from disuse. These days, he doesn't talk. He doesn't need to. This is the first time he's spoken since he saw his therapist several days ago.

"Sure thing, sweetheart," the old woman says, smiling with gentle concern at the boy. She grabs a sticky note and writes him a pass. Mark takes it and tries to say thank you, but no sound comes out. His lips move, and she nods, looking at him with sympathy- poor kid. Mark doesn't see the look, staring down at his shoes. After a moment, he turns and hurries out, fist accidentally crushing the note in his hand. He's dizzy, bees buzzing in his mind, exhausted, and choked on foggy smoke. Something breaks, and the bees swarm out. He snaps. His mind feels so empty now.

He turns and looks around, seeing the area is empty. Mark steps out the side exit and walks off, hands in his pockets, and head low. He walks quickly, trying to stop the way his hands shake. His whole body feels that way, trembling and weak. Why did he ever think people cared? Nobody cares. They all think he's a freak that should be in some mental hospital. Ethan and Amy put up with his shit because they felt sympathy. They just felt sorry for him. Mark didn't talk much, but they spent time with him anyway because they felt bad. The poor kid with weird movements and weird talking. Why did he think they cared? Tears well up in his eyes as he nears the house, and they jostle down his cheeks with each rushed step. Everything is so clear. He knows what he needs to do.

Mark slips inside and tosses his bags to the side in the entryway, continuing onward. He's so sick of this, so sick of life, so sick of being treated differently. Mark goes to the master bedroom and digs under the bed, pulling out the small pistol his mother keeps there for safety. He clutches it close, shaky hands checking to make sure it's loaded. Mark cries quietly as he turns, bringing the gun with him through the house. The teen goes to the kitchen, ripping a piece of paper from his mom's notebook. The boy begins to write.

He's so tired. Everything hurts. He's fought for so long, but he just feels so alone these days, and no one actually cares. It's his fault that his family's broken, and it's his fault his friends don't hang out with him. He's a burden on his friends. He's a burden on his family. He's the reason Tom left. He hears how his parents talk about him. He hears how his mom cries and how his dad goes quiet. He knows he stresses them out. Everything hurts. He's so sick of it. He can't go on. He's a burden to everyone. No one actually cares. They'll be better off without him.

Mark cries as he writes, tears dripping onto the paper and smudging the ink some, but he doesn't care. He doesn't notice. Mark takes the paper and the gun, opening the back door and stepping into the backyard. He leaves the door open, not seeing or caring. He sets the paper down on the table on their patio and puts a rock on top so it won't fly away. Mark moves one of the metal chairs out into the grass and sits down, staring at the gun in his hands. He doesn't want to burden anyone anymore. Mark doesn't want to be the person people are scared of. He doesn't want to get those shallow, sympathy points. At least this will make cleanup easy for his family. Out in the middle of the yard, on a metal chair. No upholstery to replace, no carpet to destain. Just hose it down, and it never happened. Then, they'll never have to deal with him again. They can be happy again. Mark sobs, feeling the pain of so many people around him. He ruins everything around him. He hurts everyone who tries to reach for him.

The thought never occurs to him that people feel pain for him, not because of him.

Mark lifts the gun to his mouth, feeling the cold metal on his tongue. He swallows, tasting salty tears and metallic tang. Mark clicks the safety off. Tears stream down his face, and he sobs one last time. He won't burden anyone anymore.