It's dark. Not because it's comforting, but because it's easier on the eyes. And maybe because Emry enjoys the tiniest bit of cliches. Like he's setting a scene. The times he thought about this, it was always dark. So it has to be dark. Way past sundown, blinds half way closed, only the flickering streetlight in front of his window offering the tiniest amount of cold, white light. He sits on his bed, mind buzzing from alcohol and stuff that was definitely not alcohol but makes him feel light and easy. The edge of his bedframe digs into his thighs uncomfortably. He never noticed it does that. He notices now.Â
He looks at the picture of Parker beside his bed and flips it over almost reluctantly. For a while, he wished Parker's face would be the last thing he sees. In fifty, sixty, seventy years maybe when they are both old and grey and still in love and he would look at Parker one last time and everything would be okay. He still wishes it could be that way. But that's not how things are. It's not okay. Not for him. Emry finally did what he promised he wouldn't do. He lied to Parker. He promised him he'd stay alive, told him he didn't really want to die. The first and only thing he ever lied to Parker about and it makes his stomach turn. He promises himself Parkerâs lips will be the last thing he thinks off. Maybe thatâll make up for it.
You said you'll keep living for Parker. Would you kill himself if it wasn't for him?
He thinks of Miles for half a second and hates himself for it. A lot. And then a little more for hating himself for it. He hates himself for hating Miles, too. More than he likes to admit. It's easy to blame him and that's why he does. Because if he doesn't blame Miles he can't pretend that this isn't his fault. Blaming Miles means Parker was taken away from him rather than he left. It means Parker loves someone else more rather than just not loving him quite enough. Blaming Miles means none of this is his fault and if he doesn't hate Miles, he has to hate himself more. He doesn't think that's possible. Maybe if he doesn't blame Miles, he has to blame Parker instead. He thinks that's even more impossible.
no wonder he chose miles tbh at least he would have the actual guts to do it instead of just grovelling for pity
The picture of him and Aderyn he flips, too. He almost feels guilty for doing this now. She has her own pain to deal with. She left for a reason and the last thing Emry, as her friend, should do was add to the long list of things in her life that brought her to that decision. But he can't wait any longer. If he wants to wait for the perfect moment, he will have to wait forever and he can't do that either. Right now, waiting for another minute feels like too much. It has to be now. He thinks of her letter, neatly folded in the top drawer of his nightstand. She said she's sorry. At first, he didn't understand what she was sorry for. Now he understands. He's sorry, too.
Is it true that you will kill yourself?Â
His eyes are drawn to the picture of his family and he doesn't even bother with turning it around. They won't care. He knows this. They spent years and years making sure of that. For them, he's a problem. A problem that will now solve itself. They didn't bother to visit him in the hospital when he didn't die. He wonders if they'd come to his funeral when he finally does. Of course, they will. All dressed in black designer clothing, fake tears on their faces for when the paparazzi take pictures of them so they look sad on the front page of the newspaper.
You really should just kill yourself. People would be so much better off without you around you fucking waste of space. Either that or grow the fuck up and stop pretending like the whole world is out to get you.Â
He can't think of family without thinking of Camila and suddenly he's sad again. He knows she will blame herself for this the way she blames herself for all the other things she can't control. He promised himself not to leave any letters, no notes, no more excuses or explanations. But her, he can't leave just like that. He picks up his phone and types a careful message. His fingers move slowly over the keyboard. There are so many more things he wants to tell her, but he realizes he's buying time. He can't do that. It has to be now. So he presses send.
Before he tosses his phone on the bed, he takes another picture for Instagram. One. Not 35. No picking the one he looks best in. This has to be real. He puts a black and white filter on it and types a long caption. Three sappy paragraphs about how everyone should matter. How everyone does matter. He reads it again and feels like a hypocrite and deletes it all. He changes the filter. Lark. Soft colours instead of black and white. As a caption, he uses the sun emoji. No hashtags.
we all know you're too much of a pussy to commit suicide so why don't you stop begging for attention? it's really not funny.
For half a second maybe, he hesitates. That's when his phone buzzes. Another anonymous message. Another person telling him to kill himself. He should. He really should. He picks up the phone. It's no death threat. It's the hitlist. He sees Parker on top of the list and his heart drops again. But now, there is nothing more he can do. It's out of his control. He sees his own name. Seven votes. He sees the names of the people who vote for him. A kid he doesn't even know. The love of his life. The man the love of his life loves. His sight gets cloudy, his eyes wet with emotion as he finally gets up, phone left on his bed. He notices how dizzy he is and he is content, content with reaching this point of being drunk. Thanks to the past few weeks, getting to this point of drunkness took a conscious effort and made it. Maybe this is his last small victory. He stumbles into the bathroom and doesn't turn on the light. It has to be dark. He places his arm over the sink, runs a finger over it. He feels the bumps of his burn scars, the faint remains of his lightning scars, telltale memories of the scars he had thanks to his father, all between soft skin covered in black ink. There was a time he used to feel so unbreakable. What happened? Life, maybe, he thinks. Sleepless nights. Love. Loss. More loss than love, honestly. He's not unbreakable anymore. Not even breakable. Just broken. So fucking broken. Tears stream down his face and he wonders why. He doesn't even feel sad. He just feels tired. Not just tired of feeling sad, but tired of feeling, period. This will fix things, he thinks. Maybe it won't. But how do you find out if something is hot without touching it? He picks up the blade and almost expects it to be hot, too. But it's not. It's cold against his fingertips, cold where he puts it on his arm, cold where it digs into his skin, cold where it splits his flesh. It hurts. Not the way getting stabbed hurts or the way getting struck by lightning hurts or the way having your heart broken into a million pieces hurts. But it still hurts. He should feel something. Something other than pain. He doesn't even know when he last felt something other than pain. He feels his legs get weak with warm blood spilling over his arm. Maybe it's the alcohol. Maybe it's the blood. Maybe it's a little bit of both. It's probably both. He's breathing hard now. His body is trying to fight this and he is fighting his body. He wants to let this happen, but his reptilian brain doesn't understand. It doesn't have to understand. It doesn't really get to understand. His blood is spilling faster than his hazy thoughts can follow. He looks into the mirror, struggling for breath, burning, aching arm still hanging over the sink. His mind gets cloudier. This is the blood. It's not the alcohol. It's definitely the blood. And it stops hurting. For the first time in days and weeks and maybe months or years it doesn't hurt. Nothing hurts. His pupils are blown, colour drained from his face. He looks tired. He feels tired, too. His body is getting heavier and his hand digs into the sink for support. Heâs shaking. Too hard to hold on to the sink. Too hard to hold on. And he slips off. Or maybe he lets go.
just kill yourself already.
