The 1997 Force 99 pistol laying on its side on the kitchen table should have made Dan uneasy, but instead, it was almost comical.
A half empty coffee from Starbucks and a few boxes of cereal. A few receipts. Dan's train pass and his battered book bag nearly hanging off the edge of the wood. And a loaded gun, sitting innocently near a chipped mug. Totally normal, right?
Normal morning.
A normal flat's normal kitchen items on a normal table.
Normal, normal, normal, normal.
Just a normal day that happened to be his birthday.
The day Dan Howell was going to kill himself.
He couldn't really find anything to wrap the gifts with, so he had finally succumbed to using newspaper. It didn't really matter, he supposed. His friends knew he wasn't really a formal kind of guy anyway, so a random gift on a random day would be less suspicious if it was poorly wrapped in newspaper.
He hadn't actually planned on wrapping the presents at all, but he felt that he should at least attempt to make the day feel more festive. The gifts would give them a happy buzz for a few hours, let them have a good day given what's about to transpire.
It felt right somehow. Like it was the least he could do.
Making sure the safety pin was loaded in the Force 99, he tucked it carefully in a small box and wrapped that too. He didn't really need to, since his plan was to get the job done here, but it felt safer.
Besides, the pistol would be like a present for himself when he unwraps it and shoots himself in the head.
It'll probably be the nicest present he receives that day.
In addition to the gun, he has a total of 4 gifts, one for each of his friends. He wants to say goodbye to them properly. He wants to give them each something to remember him by, to let them know he really cared and that he was sorry he couldn't have been better. So they know it wasn't possible for him to stick around, and that it wasn't their faults.
He didn't want them to be too upset and feel depressed.
He just needed them to understand that he had tried, but he just couldn't do this anymore.
He prayed they would.
When Dan was in high school, he had an obsession of sorts with his history teacher. Not like a crush or anything, though that would have been far easier to explain.
Dan's history teacher, Peter Sampson, never rolled up his sleeves like the other male teachers at school, nor did Peter Sampson ever wear the faculty polo shirt on "casual" Fridays. Even in warmer months he kept his arms covered, and Dan had always wondered why.
He had thought about it constantly.
Maybe he had really, really hairy arms. Or bad tattoos. Or he had been a heroine addict and had hundreds of needle-track marks. Dan had thought of everything.
But he suspected (hoped?) the truth was a darker one than that- like Mr. Sampson had tried to kill himself once, and horrible razor-blade tracks scarred his skin.
Maybe.
It was hard to convince himself that his teacher had tried to commit suicide, because he had seemed so together, so official. Probably one of the more admirable adults Dan had known at the time.
Sometimes Dan had hoped that Mr. Sampson had felt empty and hopeless enough to slash his wrists deep. If he had felt that horrible, and then survived to be such a fantastic person, then maybe there was hope for Dan.
He was pretty sure no one else had noticed the constantly clothed forearms, or if they had, no one ever said anything about it in class. He never heard anything in the hallways.
It made Dan wonder if he was the only one who really noticed, and if so, what did that say about him? Did that make him weird? Or just observant?
So many times Dan had thought about asking why he never rolled up his sleeves, but he didn't for some reason.
Deep down, Dan knew he was just worried Mr. Sampson will laugh in his face if he asked. Call him a freak. A pervert for thinking about it so much.
That would have killed him.
It really would have.
He has plain brown hair that likes to curl at the edges, and matching brown eyes that don't light up anymore.
It really pisses his roommate off that Dan only wears the same three tops everyday, though they have enough money to buy good clothes. A black hoodie, a gray thermal, or a silly sweatshirt with horns on the hood. Always long sleeves.
Today he's got on his black hoodie and a pair of blue skinny jeans. He is inconspicuous, boring. No one will look at him twice when he is outside and that is the goal.
Stepping out of his bedroom, he closes the door softly and makes his way back to the kitchen, where the gifts are waiting.
He can't really wrap Phil's good-bye present, and he feels bad about this. Instead, he places it inside a fancy, gold-rimmed envelope that they had gotten for Christmas cards and sets it on the counter.
Grabbing a pencil and flipping a receipt for crisps over, he scrawls a hasty note. He knew Phil wouldn't be back before he got home and did the deed anyway, Dan just didn't want to write it later.
dear phil
im sorry, for everything
take this and let the fans know, when youre ready
thanks for trying
i know you really did your best, but these things happen
dan
Phil was away for the week. His parents had organized a family reunion up North, and he left for it yesterday afternoon.
He had begged Dan to join him; he was basically a part of the family, but Dan had politely refused. He had told his friend that some time apart would be refreshing for the both of them, seeing as how they were near each other 24/7.
Phil hadn't texted him since he departed.
Dan figures it's better that way.
Dan stares in the mirror next to the front door of their apartment. A different person than who used to stare back at him is there. He looks thinner. Dan can see his cheekbones sticking out where his brown curtain tucks behind his ear. Deep purple shadows trace along underneath his eyes, an accessory of three weeks of insomnia.
"I'm going to kill you later today." Dan says to that guy in the mirror, and he just smiles back at him, like he can't wait.
"Promise?" He hears someone say, which freaks him out, because his lips didn't move.
Who said that?
There is a voice inside the glass.
Before he can form a coherent thought, his fist collides with the mirror, shrill fear causing his head to ache. He didn't want that mirror to ever talk to him again.
Millions of shards rain down to the floor and then a million little Dan's look up at him, each complete with one bloody fist.
He cleans off his knuckles as quickly as he can and stumbles out the door, leaving the broken glass glittering on the tile.
This is the first fanfiction I have ever published, so please be kind with your comments! xoxo