Author's note: You will encounter the Swedish word Stjärtgosse in this story. Directly translated it means "Ass boy" and is a slur against homosexuals. Please don't use the word towards people, it is not a nice thing to say!

Emil stared at a picture in his hand. Taken shortly after he and the others had come back from the Silent World. Everyone more or less bruised, but still smiling, the kitty playing around their feet, not understanding why everyone was lined up. Happier times. Everyone had stayed at the HQ in Mora for a while, before they needed to get back to their regular jobs, Emil had mostly hung out with Lalli, training what little Finnish he had picked up, and then he was back at his regular duties in the Cleansers.

First it was the teasing. Emil forced himself to smile, to laugh with them as they laughed at him. Forced himself not to protest too vividly against their claims of him and Lalli being a couple, forced himself not to protest too weakly either. Anything else than just the right amount would have been proof they were correct.

The teasing slowly grew into bullying. Emil quickly moved out of his parents' house when it started, he couldn't let them see him battered and hurt. As autumn and winter fell the bullying got worse, what was supposed to be his friends, those he could trust to have his back, tied him up outside the barracks as snow started falling and left him there after having doused him in water. He missed the second expedition because of that, he missed his chance to see his friends again.

Pneumonia, and a pretty bad one at that. Emil thought he was going to die, but he made it through the winter. The others came back from the Silent World, but he couldn't bring himself to see them. After that he fell apart from them even more. Closed himself in, only left his apartment for work and otherwise stayed inside. At work the bullying continued, he started getting familiar with the people in the hospital. Logically he knew he should look for a new job, but he couldn't bring himself to it.

Who would even want him?

Three years after everything started his family stopped calling him. He had long since stopped answering their calls, but when the phone stopped ringing Emil knew they had lost faith in him. He stopped paying his phone bill, his electricity bill. Only ate during work and barely there either, because his supposed friends tripped him, slipped themselves and spilled his food, dumped gasoline in his food by "mistake" or threw the food in his face.

Spring rolled around again and then... That's when the first one happened. They had been calling him stjärtgosse for so long he had stopped expecting it, and of course, that's why it happened. He had been in the shower after a hard day's work, since they had to shower at base. Everyone else was supposed to have left, and Emil didn't knew who it was, he always stood with his face towards the wall, not daring to look at any lingering team mates. When he felt the hands pressing him against the wall he expected the usual beating, but instead, something was pressed into him from behind, emptied inside him and was pulled out again. He tried to defend himself, but the person was stronger and when they were done Emil was thrown to the floor, his head hit the wall, started bleeding and he cradled himself as the person kicked his back and spat at him.

He couldn't sit the next day and his colleagues were worse than usually. Emil found himself praying to the Finnish gods, to the Icelandic gods, to the God of the Old World, for it all to stop, to end. Instead, it happened again. At first only in the shower, when everyone was supposed to have left the base, but when summer came it happened in the forest when they were out working, in alleys on his way home, sometimes even on his way to work. The next time they poured gasoline in his food he considered eating it. The only thing that stopped him was that another person threw it in his face.

One day, he fainted. He was forced to stay a week in the hospital, for observation, because apparently neglecting to eat wasn't very good for the body. When he came back it got even worse. Emil hadn't believed it was possible, but it was.

Emil looked at the picture again. Happier times. How was it possible for five lousy years to feel like an eternity? Slowly he placed the picture on the sink, sank down on the toilet seat. He hadn't heard from them since before they left for the second expedition. Lalli and Tuuri had stopped by before leaving for Copenhagen, to wish him good health. Lalli's Swedish had gotten a lot better. He hid his face in his hands, but didn't cry. There just wasn't any more tears. His body ached, but he no longer felt hunger, only a constant tiredness. His body shook as he let out a sigh, before looking up again, looking at the picture. Everyone smiled at him, even himself. Slowly he lifted his hand, held it against the frame. A tear left his eye as he placed the picture face down. He couldn't let them see this.

His hand wandered to the other side of the sink, grabbed the item he had placed there. No one would come, he knew it. He closed his eyes, leaned back, took a couple deep breaths. The gods wouldn't help, couldn't help because they didn't exsist, so it was up to him. The blade felt cold against his skin and he shivered, breathed faster, tried to calm himself. Red droplets coloured to floor, the carpet, and he quickly switched the blade to the other hand, pulled it over his other arm. His fingers was tingling, weak, and it didn't get deep enough and then the pain hit him. The tears he hadn't been able to cry started falling. He got up, stumbled towards the phone. The phone that didn't work but he hadn't removed. He lifted it, dropped it, fell to his knees. Pressed his arms to his chest.

It had been a stupid idea, he knew that now. Razorblades were painful, unelegant, bloody and so very painful. And he couldn't even call for help.

He managed to get himself to his feet, get himself to the door. Managed to open it by falling against it, shoulder first. He slid down the stairs, landed, pain surging through his body, especially from his arms. A door opened, he heard voices, tried to see who it was, but his eyes could no longer stay open and he fainted.

Razors pain you;

Emil pulled at the bandages on his arms. They screamed at him, told him how useless he was. Like he needed their reminder about it. The idea had seemed so simple, so easy, but he still lived. Already out of the mental ward because there wasn't room for him. He kicked a rock and heard it plop into the river. Österdalaälven. Emil looked at it, pondered. He shouldn't be out here, but home wasn't very safe.

There had been a light in the apartment and Emil knew someone was waiting for him. He didn't know who, but he hadn't had a visitor for years. Maybe a thief, looking through his stuff. He looked at the sky. Maybe he should have risked going there, maybe if he came the thief would panic and...

Emil shook his head. It would be painful. Instead he settled down on the side of the river. Drowning was supposed to be peaceful, wasn't it? He could swim, everyone in Mora could swim, but how long could he stay swimming? Would the cold take him first? Or the water? He took of his shoes, put his feet in the water. The thin layer of ice crunched as he touched it, and he laid down on the ground. It wouldn't hold him under.

He pulled his feet up again, already getting cold. Let out a sigh and pulled up a photograph from his pocket. Could he still call them friends? He hadn't heard from them for five years now. Did they remember him? Did they think about him? Maybe they just saw him as a traitor, a deserter, for having missed out on the second expedition. Had they gotten a new cleanser, a better one, and forgotten about him?

It wasn't impossible.

Emil put the photo on the ground beside him, face up. They smiled at him. Telling him to go through with it? Maybe. He let out a sigh, carefully pulled off his shirt. The winter breeze sent a shiver down his spine, and he proceeded to pull off his pants and his socks. Clothes would only make him stay warm longer.

He leaned down, turned the photo over, hid it inside his shirt so it wouldn't get harmed by the weather. Once done he got up again, took a deep breath. Looked at the river. For a river it was pretty calm and he backed away a little, walked up to the edge and looked into the river before backing away again. Took a deep breath and then ran, flew.

He heard voices, but they were drowned out by his own scream as he hit the water. It was cold and wet and he flailed his arms, instinctively tried to swim back to the shore. All thoughts about what he had been planning to do was gone and gosh darn it he had to get ashore! He tried swimming, but the current pulled him under, pulled him away from the shore. He got water in his lungs, coughed, was pulled under again. Something grabbed around his chest, something strong, and he tried to fight it, tried to get free and then he was on his back, snow beneath him and sky above him. He closed his eyes.

That did not go according to plan.

Rivers are damp;

Emil was alone. His colleagues had already left the base, more stressed than usual because it was the day before yule. He dried his hair, leaned against the wall. The wall felt cold, soothing against the wounds he had received during the day, his colleagues not missing even one opportunity to trip him over the shingles that covered the military ground. He would need to order new clothes, again.

He got up, picked the clothes up. It was no use putting them on, but he didn't have anything else. He'd have to walk naked to his apartment. Emil let out a sigh and tied the towel around his waist. He turned off the lights as he left the shower room and peered into the darkness outside.

Most lights on the base had been turned off, leaving it feeling eerie and abandoned. Emil started walking. He kicked the snow, glad his shoes weren't as torn as his clothes. Sometimes he stopped, looked at the shingles between the patches of snow, then continued walking. His hand found a doorknob, pulled it opened, turned the lights on.

Emil wasn't aware of how he pulled the photo of his friends out of a broken pocket. The photo had gotten torn, but still held together, and he put it on the wall, dragged one of the barrels to the middle of the room he found himself in. Opened it, looked at his friends.

"There won't be anything left to bury me, I'm sorry."

Not that he believed anyone cared enough to bury him anyway. He swallowed, went up to the picture and turned it around. He couldn't let them see it. He went back to the barrel, looked at the liquid inside. It looked so harmless, still and he held his hand over it. Let the hand sink into the liquid. It tickled a little, itched, but nothing more and he nodded, decided to go for it and started pulling his hand up again.

He screamed. His hand felt like it was on fire and he quickly pulled it out of the liquid. Droplets hit his face, his chest, and it took a couple seconds for the pain to start. He tried to calm himself, remember what little medical training they had recieved and what the doctors had taught him. Blisters covered his hand, flared up in his face and on his chest and he rushed out, dropped his towel when he ran.

Water. You take care of acid burns with water. Emil ran back to the showers. The pain was starting to become unbearable and his feet stumbled, but he made it, managed to get the door opened. Slipped on the cold floor and hit his back in the wall, but managed to stretch up his undamaged hand to turn on the water. Slowly he got up, to let the water wash over all of him.

He looked in horror as the skin started peeling off, looked away but couldn't get the image off his mind. He leaned down and threw up, sank to the floor again. Closed his eyes and tried to ignore the burning sensation in his body. He would need to find a phone and call for help.

He glanced at his hand again. It would never look normal again.

Acids stain you;

"It seems the stairs on the base have gotten more dangerous, Mr Västerström."

Emil nodded at the doctors words and flinched as he touched Emil's hand. The doctor handed him a glass of water and a white pill, telling him to take it. Emil did, and the doctor nodded, said he'd return in a while and then left the room. Emil's eyes rested at the window, he didn't quite register when the door closed. After a couple minutes he slid down from the hospital bed and started going through the cupboards and the drawers in the room. He didn't really know what he was looking for.

His hand was still burning, his chest and face was itching badly, but he forbid himself to scratch. Not that it would actually matter. A smile spread across his face when he opened one of the drawers and he quickly read the back of the package. Painkillers, very strong ones at that. He listened for a moment through the door, but couldn't hear anyone approaching. Quickly he emptied the package onto the table, started taking them. 5, 10, 15. His body was starting to protest. 18, 20, 25. He could hear steps getting closer and swallowed another 5. His hands were shaking when he picked the last five up, put them into his mouth. The steps stopped outside the door and he hurried back to the bed, settled down on it, staring out through the window.

"Sorry about the wait."

Emil didn't look at the doctor. He was sweating, his hands shaking. The doctor put something on the bed beside Emil, and Emil turned his head, tried to see what it was. A clipboard. Emil had no idea what was going on. He looked at the man infront of him, tried to figure out who he was.

"There's not much more I can do than wrap you up..."

Wrap you up? Emil got up. He wouldn't let the man turn him into a mummy without putting up a fight.

"Mr. Västerström, what are you doing?"

Emil's legs were shaking, his breathing was uneven and he had trouble keeping his eyes open. The man pushed him back onto the bed, looked around the room, then called for someone to help him. Emil's arms started twitching, he screamed when his burned hand moved, his legs twitched as well. The man continued holding him down, and someone else entered the room. The two heads were floating about Emil, he made out the word overdose and then something stung his arm. As the room faded from his vision he felt something being pushed into his throat and then nothing.

And drugs cause cramp;

Emil hoped no one would see him in the hospital gown, but it was morning and it was soon time for them to gather on the base. He thought about running, to hopefully get inside before anyone could see him, but just keeping up straight took pretty much everything out of him. He wasn't supposed to be at the base, the doctors had told him to go home and rest for another couple of days, but he needed to order new clothes before he could do that. He didn't have any at home anyway, his (now torn) uniform was all the clothes he owned. He heard steps and quickly snuck inside the closest door.

The barrel still stood where he had left it. He stared at it for a while, then slowly started pushing it back to where he had taken it. Navigating it with one hand wasn't easy, but after a while it was back in place and he leaned against the wall, took a deep breath.

"No use having it stand in the middle of the room like that, am I right?"

He turned around to where he had placed the photo and his half-hearted smile faded. It was gone. He looked at the floor, looked around in the room, but it simply wasn't there anymore and he sank to the floor. Someone must have taken it. He leaned his forehead against his knees, his body shook. He didn't know how long he staye there, but after a while he forced himself up.

The photo of his former friends was gone. His only reminder of happier times. He stumbled through the door, towards the building with the showers. That's where they changed to and from their military uniforms. If anyone had taken it, it would be there. The lockers had locks, but mostly they were left open and Emil started going through them, searching for the photo.

He couldn't find it, not in any of the open lockers. He searched them again, tried to open a few of the locked ones, but still nothing. His hand closed around something metal, a gun, and he pulled it out, weighted it in his hand, realized it didn't actually matter that the picture was gone, he wouldn't need it any longer anyway. He backed away, sank down on one of the benches, still with the gun in his hand. He weighted it, slowly raised it and placed the barrel inside his mouth, closing his eyes.

Guns aren't lawful;

Emil put the gun down again. He couldn't, not like that. He put it back, closed the locker he had found it in and left the room again.

"Västerström, I was hoping to have a word with you."

Emil blinked at the man standing infront of him. His superior. The man had a condemning smile plastered on his face and Emil turned his gaze down, clenched his fingers aroud the hospital gown. The man didn't say anything about it, instead turned around and motioned for Emil to follow him. Emil did so, heard the laughters from everyone they passed on the way and he tried pulling the gown closer, tried to hold it together in the back. He heard them calling him stjärtgosse again, heard them asking if the dress was to make it easier for his boyfriend and he tried to ignore them. This was the military, this was how it was supposed to sound. The knowledge didn't make it hurt less.

His captain settled down behind his desk, leaned forward and watched as Emil fidgeted with the gown, didn't dare look at the man. The man's voice was low, determined and stern.

"I have noticed that you are making your colleagues uncomfortable and distracted and I just want to tell you that you are suspended until further notice. I am going to talk with the general about your behaviour, and we will see what happens after that."

"I'm going to get fired, aren't I?"

His captain corrected some of the papers on his desk before looking at Emil again.

"I can not say for sure, Västerström. For now you should return home."

Emil looked at his feet, nodded and backed away, out of the office. When he closed the door he felt hands on his hips and something pressing against him.

"This is what you want, isn't it, stjärtgosse?"

Emil cried, tried to pull away, but his legs were seperated and he felt the person forcing themself into him. As they pulled out again Emil was tossed to the ground, shaking, hurt. The person spat on him, kicked shingles over him and then walked away and Emil forced himself up, started walking. His feet led him to the river, made him follow it.

There was a boathouse a couple hundred meters from the military base, belonging to the few fishermen Mora had. Emil's hand rested on the door handle for a few seconds before opening the door. He found a rope in one of the boats and grabbed it, grabbed the ladder that laid next to the wall. Somehow he managed to climb to one of the beams in the ceiling, managed to tie the rope around the beam. He fiddled with the other end of the rope, slowly tied it into a noose, used his damaged hand only as much as he had to.

He looked at the noose when he was done, slowly placed it over his head, around his neck. He dangled his feet for a while, took a deep breath and then pushed himself off the beam.

Nooses give;

Emil laid on the floor. His body ached, but that could only mean one thing: He still wasn't dead. He looked at the ground, closed his eyes again, let out a sigh. Settled up and looked at the rope. Broken. Of course. He turned his head towards the ceiling, looking past it without seeing what laid beyond, and cursed whatever deities would listen to him. He lost track of time, got up first when he heard someone entering through the other door and hurried back outside.

He continued walking, stayed away from people as much as possible. The wintery air was cold through the thin hospital gown and he was shivering. He passed his apartment, saw a light flicker inside it and contiued away from it. He didn't have a reason to go there anyway. He thought he heard people call for him, but his mind ended their calls with what he was used to.

Inappropriate suggestions about where someone like he could put it.

Call outs to how weak he was.

How stupid.

How ugly.

Call outs for his death.

He heard people spitting after him, but wasn't sure if it actually happened or if his mind was just playing tricks on him. He felt something tug at the hospital gown and he froze and then started running. His legs were already going numb from the cold, but he forced himself to continue, didn't stop until he fell over, slid in the snow.

His body stopped next to a car. He felt at the door, noticed it was opened and dragged himself into it, trying to get some warmth back into his body. He didn't know whose car it was, but for the moment that didn't matter. He looked around, tried to find the key to it, to be able to put the heat on.

He found it in the glove compartment and thanked his lucky star that the owner of the car was so trusting of his fellow citizens. He started the car, leaned back as the heat worked its way through his body. Once he was thawed he looked around, trying to figure out where he was and what he would do now. His eyes fell on a blanket in the back seat and as he stretched out and pulled at it a hose fell to the floor. Emil stared at it.

Could he? It wouldn't exactly be stealing. Anyway, why should he care? He wouldn't be there to fix it up afterwards. Emil pulled the hose to the front seat. He had heard it was pretty peaceful, you'd fall asleep quickly and miss out on the dying part. It would just happen while you slept. He opened the door and put a foot to the ground.

The air felt even colder now and his body started shivering immediately. He still got out, pulled the hose with him. He placed it over the exhaust pipe, pulled down the window and put the other end of the hose through there before pulling the window up as high as possible again. He used the blanket to cover up the opening that was left and then he closed the door, started up the engine. He leaned back and prepared to fall asleep.

Gas smells awful;

Emil coughed, opened the door and fell into the snow. He coughed some more, looked at the car. Black smoke filled it up, leaked through the opened window and Emil kicked the car. He felt tears well up in his eyes and he kicked the car again. He got up from the ground, decided to just head back home. If there was a burglar in there it was just as well to get it over with. Hopefully the burglar would finish what Emil could not.

He started freezing again as he walked, coughed from time to time. No one called for him this time, no one tugged at his clothes or spat at him. He dried his tears as he reached his door, his hand shaking as he laid it on the handle. He took a deep breath as he pushed it down, the door creaked as he opened it and he heard sounds inside the apartment. Sounds that stopped as he moved into the room.

Then, he found himself on the ground. Arms pressed around him, something wet pressing itself against his chest. Big, strong hands lifted him to his feet, forced the arms to let go of him, but new ones quickly replaced them, this time thinner, not pressing as hard. Another hand hit him in the back and he almost fell over, but the person holding him kept him up.

"We were worried..."

The hands let go of him, the person backed away and he looked into Lalli's eyes, looked into Tuuri's tearful eyes, Mikkel's smirking but still worried eyes. He heard Reynir and Onni in the kitchen, felt a strong arm over his shoulder and red, short hair came into view.

"I knew you'd be standing, my little viking."

Emil's eyes teared up again, Reynir and Onni came out to see what the ruckus was about and Emil threw his arms around everyone, pulled everyone into a large hug.

"I thought you had forgotten about me."

"Don't be silly, Emil", Mikkel said and patted Emil's back. "You are our friend."

Tuuri's hand dried his tears, dried her own tears.

"Why would we forget about you? We thought you had forgotten about us, you never answered our letters."

"I never got any letters..."

"Swedish postal system", Onni muttered. "Can't trust foreigners to deliver important messages."

Reynir added something in Icelandic and Emil couldn't help but hug him a little tighter, even though he couldn't understand the words he got the meaning.

"We came back from the expedition early", Sigrun said and pulled free from Emil's hug. "Our little Finnish mage here started acting up shortly before yule and said that if we didn't turn around right away he'd leave us behind."

Emil looked at Lalli, who blushed and looked away, and Emil also blushed, looked down at the floor, pulled at the gown. Shortly before yule, that's when it started. A couple weeks ago.

"We took turns waiting here", Tuuri explained. "Us, Siv, Torbjörn, even your cousins have been here waiting for you to show up. We tried asking on the base, but they didn't knew anything most of the time, and all other times it was classified."

Lalli dug around in his pocket, pulled something out and Emil released the hug he had still been holding, looked at it.

"I found this... on the base."

They were all smiling at him, and he slowly lifted his hand, new tears filling his eyes as he took the picture of his friends from Lalli. They were smiling at him, and Emil looked up, looked at his worried but still smiling friends.

Emil smiled.

You might as well live.

Author's note (again): So there you have it! Inspired by a short poem by Dorothy Parker which you can read in the text. Here, have it in its full glory:

Razors pain you;
Rivers are damp;
Acids stain you;
And drugs cause cramp;
Guns aren't lawful;
Nooses give;
Gas smells awful;
You might as well live.