A/N: This is a oneshot. Inspired by the Iron Giant and a post on tumblr. I don't really know what else to say, but a review sure would tickle my fancy ;)
The letter he writes is to his parents. They deserve one, he thinks. By the time he's done with it, his brain is going to be tired, and he's not sure he'll even have the patience to finish it. He wonders if the pressure is going to be too much to bear soon, and if he'll leave the notebook paper, pens, and envelopes scattered on his desk, guilt surging through him even as he puts the cold metal to his head.
The hand gun is sitting there on his desk, taunting him. Do it now, it says. Get it over with. You don't want to live another minute. You don't deserve to.
Eli sucks in a shaky breath, tearing his eyes away and trying his hardest to focus on the task in front of him. It's hard, though. It's hard, because there's this cold, raspy voice in his ear drums, whispering softly. So softly that his head hurts. It won't leave him alone. It's been there for such a long time, always screaming, always yelling at him. Always telling him to do things that he doesn't want to do. That he's not supposed to do.
But this time? This time it's whispering. It's so quiet. So soft. And yet, he can hear nothing else. Not the birds chirping right outside his window, not the music playing on his iPod, not his phone vibrating with texts from Imogen, Fiona, and Adam. All he can hear is do it now, do it now, do it now.
"No!" He yells, and gasps soon after, covering his mouth. His breathing is so ragged already, and he decides to give in and take his stupid fucking medication so that he can hear himself think.
There's a knock at his door. It's not locked; ever since the accident, Bullfrog and Cece no longer allow it to be. It makes them nervous. "Baby boy?"
Cece.
"Yeah, mom?" Eli answers, his voice stong, but there's something weird about it. Something cold.
"Are you okay in there? I heard yelling."
"I'm fine," he laughs, but it has a manic edge to it, and Cece notices this. Her hand moves to the doorknob. "I just kicked my bed post by accident. It hurt."
"Are you alright?"
"I'm great." And there it is again. This detached, off tone that he can't seem to keep out of his voice for a minute. Cece wants to open the door, to see what's going on in there, to pull him into a hug and tell him that everything's going to be okay, but she doesn't. She wants to believe he's telling the truth. That he really is doing as well as he seems to be. She wants him to know that she trusts him. That she doesn't think he's crazy like he always teases her about. She just wants everything to really be okay.
"Okay. Um. Well, I don't know if you remember, but Bullfrog and I are going to –"
"I remember." Of course he does. How could he forget about the four to six hour time frame that his parents will be gone from the house? He's planned around it for weeks. It's all he can ever fucking think about. He's been waiting for its arrival – the arrival of the perfect opportunity. You didn't think he was going to blow his brains out with his parents right down stairs, did you? That would have been crueler than necessary. That would have been sick, even for him.
"Are you sure you're alright?" Eli's chest aches when he hears his mother's voice – it's so full of pain and regret. "If you need me, I can—"
He cuts her off again. "Cece, I said that I'm fine." He means to sound harsh, to sound final, to sound like a normal, annoyed teenage boy. But all they can both hear when is voice cracks is that same pain – that same longing for things to be normal. The longing for not having to always pretend.
"Okay. We're leaving in about an hour."
"Alright."
"And baby boy?"
"Yes?" He asks softly, knowing that this will be the last time he will speak to his mother.
"I love you."
It takes several moments for Eli to respond. His fingers run lightly over the gun handle, feeling it's smooth, cold texture. He likes how his fingers tingle, how the muscles in them ache to bend and hold it. Just to verify that this is real. That he's holding destruction in his hand. But it's not time yet, and he's got a few more things to attend to.
He's finally able to force out his voice, but he's already gone. He's already got that graphic image in his head, the one of him surrounded by his blood, pale, and cold, and absolutely dead.
"I love you, too."
-.-.-.-.-.o0o-.-.-.-.-
He's finally finished the letter to this parents now. It's absolutely perfect, he thinks. Out of all the things he's ever written, never has his voice rung out so truthfully. Never has it flowed so effortlessly. He's finally done it; he's gotten something right. It's one of the last things he'll ever write, and for once in his life, he's fucking sure that he got down everything he's ever wanted to say.
Eli's eyes move to the gun on the desk. It's sitting there, still, in all of it's cold, terribly symbolically violent glory. It should scare him. The way he's able to sit there and stare at it so peacefully should scare the fucking shit out of him. Because he doesn't view it that way. He doesn't view the gun as destruction. He doesn't view it as terrible, or violent.
All of those things?
They describe him.
He's the gun, he decides. He's the thing that he should be afraid of. The thing weighing down a stack of crumpled papers on his desk? It's nothing more than an instrument. It's nothing but a tool. A way out.
Yes.
He is the gun.
He is destruction.
He is cold and unfeeling.
He is violent.
He is terrible.
The realization dawns on him and makes him shake. His meds are doing nothing to calm him now.
Eli Goldsworthy is smart. He knows that the gun, if he so allows, will sit there forever and ever, doing nothing more.
He's the one that will ever so slowly lift it up, and up a little more. He's the one that will put it to his head, ice cold against his warmth radiating from his body. He's the one that will slowly wrap his finger around the steel trigger, and pull. Eli's antsy now. He wants it over with. He wants to feel as cold as that fucking gun. He wants to feel it in the very pit of his soul. He just wants to die.
That's all he wants.
Letter finally finished, he carries it to his bed. He sets it nicely on his pillow so that maybe they'll get it before they start to cry too much. It explains everything perfectly, after all. His parents will understand. They'll get it. He just doesn't want to be here anymore.
He walks back to his desk, and his fingers ache in relief when they wrap around it. God, it feels so fucking right. He's making some fucking progress for the first time in a while, and a sadistic smile forms on his lips as he sits on his bed. He can't even look at the damn thing anymore, but he knows it well. It's his only friend. It's the only one that's going to help him now.
Slowly, he lifts it, and he places the barrel to the side of his head like he's imagined so many times before. It sends the same shiver down his spine that he thought it would. His movement is mechanical and purposeful. His finger wraps around the trigger steadily. For some reason though, he doesn't pull right away. It doesn't seem…right. He needs to count to three. He needs to mark the last three seconds of his life.
One is for none other than Clare Edwards. He tells her that he loves her in his head, and that she's so fucking beautiful, and she'll be so much better off now. So much happier.
Two is for his mom and dad. He doesn't tell them anything, because the letter beside him is right there, reassuring him that it will do its job.
Three is for himself and the gun he's holding. For the relief that will soon follow. For sticking around for seventeen painful fucking years.
And then, just like that, three fateful seconds later, three lifetimes later, he pulls.
He pulls, and that's the end of everything. His world doesn't go black, it goes blank. It disappears. He's gone.
He never even existed.