Chapter Text
Time was moving slowly.
He stumbled off the chair, his balance uneven, his legs almost giving out under him. His house seemed so unfamiliar now, so dark and gray. Noises boomed in his ears, his own footsteps sounding like stomps on the soft, carpeted floor and he could hear his own racing heartbeat thumping in his ears. Scarred hands went to maneuver the rope off of his neck. The rough material of the rope felt like claws scratching against his hands and his horribly chipped nails, but he didn’t care.
His hands pressed against the wall as he used it for balance. He wanted to sit down. Maybe lay. Lay down and sleep. Give up. His back pressed against the wall, and he let his head fall back too, his curls rolling off of his face and out of his eyes- he didn’t even realize they were there in the first place. His eyes closed for a moment, resting. He was so tired.
He pressed his hands against the gray walls as he reopened his eyes, pushing off of the wall and immediately regretting it as he almost fell onto the ground. How long did he stand there for? Time was lost on him, his internal clock going haywire. He was dizzy, the room spinning around him as he found the strength to continue walking, heading down a hallway and staying close to the wall. Better safe than sorry. He nudged a door open with his foot, the creaking making him cringe away from it.
He found his way into the now open bathroom, pushing the door open wider as he wandered in, stopping in front of the sink and leaning on it. His reflection stared back with tired, dead eyes surrounded by a foreign face, the freckles and scars moving along his face in chilling circles, taunting his appearance. It hypnotized him, in a way, grabbing his eyes and not letting him look away from the hallucination in the mirror. Shadows, despite the room being blindingly bright, flickered behind his reflection and danced, taunting him.
His skin looked pale. There was a scar on his neck, he noticed. How long had he been staring at his reflection? How long would he sit here, staring at his visage until it looked like his? Maybe forever. Until he finally closed his eyes, letting his life leave him in a peaceful, quiet rest?
He stood up straighter. He despised what he was staring at, despised what was staring back at him. He let out a breath he didn’t realize he was holding, before sucking it back in, his hands balling into fists at his side, his sharp, uneven nails digging into his palms.
The mirror shattered into three main parts, and a million smaller faults surfaced in the glass.
He didn’t realize he had punched the mirror until his fists started to bleed and ache with the pain. A million copies of his face mocked him as he pulled his hand away, finally tearing his gaze from the mirror to inspect his injured hand. He flexed it once, twice, feeling the sting of the glass lodged into his skin, the sharp edges stained by crimson red.
He picked out the pieces of glass, hissing at the pain as his other hand made careful work to pluck out the stray pieces. He let his injured hand rest on the sink as the other one dug for bandages in the unorganized, messy drawer. His grip on the roll was tight as he pulled it out of the drawer, as if it would slip out of his hands. Like his life did. Like his ambitions, his dreams, his control had all came crashing down. He sighed quietly, tiredly at the thought, tugging at the bandages and tightly wrapping a few layers around his other hand.
It hurt, and he needed to clean the wound, but that was the least of his problems right now. Everything hurt. What didn’t? He grabbed at the sink, sparing the mirror one last glance. His face didn’t look any less unfamiliar now, but it looked like his. Maybe that was all that mattered. His hands traced his neck, traced the scar on his neck as he watched his many reflections mimic him. Mock him. His hands dropped as he turned, his back to the broken mirror. He wasn’t ready to face his earlier decision. But he had to.
Even the lights seemed more relaxed as he stepped out of the bathroom, and his house wasn’t so gray and dead. He walked out to the living room, staring at the wooden chair in the middle. He looked down, kicking at the discarded rope, before leaning over and picking it up. It felt comfortable in his hands, for some reason. Even though the fibers dug into his skin. Even though it hurt him to look at. A reminder of what he had done, what he had attempted, what he had even thought about sent a jolt down his spine. He felt pathetic .
He poked his head into his kitchen, tossing the rope weakly into the trash can and then piling some loose papers- bills, mostly- on top. He didn’t want to see the rope again, less it gave him any more irrational ideas. He was strangely calm now, almost moving on autopilot, almost as if whatever happened just didn’t.
He sat. On the chair he was previously standing on, ready to die.
It creaked under his weight.
He let his head fall back and his eyes closed.
And he waited.