So... it's been a while, and it kinda feels good to write again even though this short story is bad. Before you read this, i must warn you that this contains a suicide attempt and mentions of depression. If you have a history or are very sensitive to this subject, I highly reccomend not reading this. If you're dealing with depression or have thoughts of suicide, please seek help! You matter so much and are so strong for making it this far.
Whenever John had his weekly broadcasts, he'd always preach something along the lines about sin and the importance of reaching atonement. If anyone had their radios on or were near a television, they would only hear the words he had to say, but not listen as they would sometimes carry on with their daily activities. In this recent broadcast, it seemed as though, for once, everyone listened. The camera focused on the Baptist, standing idly in his dim lit bunker, terribly presented as his clothes were wrinkled up, his complexion looked pale and sickly, and the gray circles under his eyes were just barely visible. Nonetheless, he still spoke with much energy; Like he was the happiest man alive. He started by greeting his "brothers, sisters, and many alike", shortly before announcing that he wasn't going to be discussing sin nor atonement; That instead he was going to be talking about grief.
"Grief… It's a heavy emotion we all come across at some point," He began, "Sometimes, we feel it when we experience loss, whether if it's over the a lover, a close friend, a member of your family, or even your pet— It'll be there, and for those who know grief; Know it like an old forgotten friend, you understand. You mourn. You weep. You go through something more agonizing than stubbing your toe…" As he spoke, his energy began to drop significantly after letting out a forced chuckle.
"Now, you're probably thinking, 'Why are you talking about this?'" John paused, his eyes wandering as he looked for the right words to say, "Because… I want you to know…- I need to tell-" He clenched his fists along with his teeth, muttering an inaudible swear as he stopped again, gathering his thoughts. He remained silent for a solid ten seconds of attempting to piece together the right words. "Because…" John spoke again, "I won't be there to witness the Collapse. I won't be there to march through Eden's Gate and see our paradise…" His smile was gone now, "I'll tell you now, not to worry… More importantly, not to grieve… Because I'm not worth anyone's tears nor pity."
John walked over to the camera, stretching his arm out just enough for him to reach the record button, "To my brothers; My sister… I'm sorry."
He ended the broadcast, standing idly for a moment as he could almost feel his thoughts spreading and eating away at his brain. It was starting to give him a headache, and after what seemed like an eternity, he finally began to make his way out as soon as he heard his men coming towards his way. He could hear them rambling something about how they were confused and worried about what the hell he had just said, and it's something he probably should've expected. Fortunately, he found himself prepared. As he rounded the corner, he saw the two men approach him, concern written all over their eyes when they caught a glimpse of him. Before any of them could say a word, John shoved his way past them, hoping to leave without a commotion. But as soon as one of them laid a hand on his shoulder, as if he were trying to stop him, the Baptist quickly reached out for the man's face, not wasting any time setting them on both sides before digging his thumbs into his eyes. Above the his agonizing screaming, John hissed, making sure to address the other man standing in horror and shock, "Don't try to stop me…"
As soon as the screams began to die down, John let him fall to the ground, the second man stepping away and not even attempting to say anything as John walked out. He made his trip to the ranch as fast as possible, and once he got there, he locked all the doors and windows, hoping to stop anyone from preventing what he was about to do next. When he got to his room, he sat on his bed, staining the sheets with the sticky blood that covered his hands. He couldn't care less about those silky covers, as they were already stained from his own tears from previous nights when he couldn't hold back from breaking down due to stress and the energy he lacked to hold himself together. He stressed from the past that held onto him like a vulture gripping its sharp talons into his flesh; He stressed about holding onto the only family he once lost. He tried hard to hold onto them this time; Tried hard to impress so he wouldn't disappoint and lose them again, and the energy to give it his all drained him to a point of exhaustion and depression. Depression wasn't a new face to him, but this time it violated him to a point where he felt useless; Felt like he was letting down everyone around him no matter what he did. The emotion he felt carved his biggest sin onto his chest along with the scars that he dug into his arms and stomach that stimulated the same high cocaine had, and it only showed him that John Duncan was still a part of him; That his past was not something he could let go of. It was a chained weight he's been dragging around and there's no key to getting it off his ankle. John was tired. He couldn't bear to carry his own weight, and he was sure his family couldn't stand carrying him as well.
After a few minutes of debating his choice of poison, John pushed himself off the bed, walking into the bathroom and sweeping his razor off the counter. He cut the tips of his fingers on the sharp edges until he finally got a blade out. Brushing the blood off of his fingers, he stood with his arm hovered over the sink. There were dozens of scars scattered on this arm, some old and some new, but all it took to take the weight away was one. Placing the blade on his wrist, he inhaled for a moment, bracing for what was to come afterwards, before digging it deeply into his flesh, dragging it all the way up his arm. Within a matter of seconds, burning blood poured out like a waterfall, dripping into the sink and floor and causing John to feel light headed already. He dropped to his knees slowly before tumbling back into the wall behind him. He sat with his arm in his lap, the blood staining his clothes. Not wanting to see the red sight, he drifted his gaze to the ceiling. The lights were starting to have a hazy aura and everything else was blurry. Every time he blinked, John grew sleepier and sleepier. The only sound he heard was his own struggle to breathe along with a distant pounding and shouting. Whoever was at his door was too late. The gates of the afterlife, as he imagined, whether if it was heaven, hell, or even purgatory, were starting to open for him.
Everything began to feel so surreal in a matter of time, and John could barely think anymore. He could still hear the faint banging that echoed through the walls of his home, followed by some voices that he couldn't identify at first. Then came a huge crash that he could barely jump to as he knew that his own bedroom door was just broken down. Just before he could close his eyes and block out whoever would try to save him, or if they tried, he felt a ping of shock as he heard a clear voice that belonged to his oldest brother, "Oh my god…" Jacob's face finally came into view, taking John into his arms and keeping one hand tightly closed around the self-inflicted wound. The terror on his face along with the desperate pleas to stay awake and alive was enough for the younger brother to realize that this was all a mistake. The regret was starting to sink in, and he himself began to feel scared too. But he felt weak in his brother's arms, unable to obey his mind and body. He wanted to help close the wound and wanted to say, "I'm sorry. I didn't know you cared." But all he could do was weep, discovering that he had not run dry of his tears after all. He shivered, feeling his eyes roll into the back of his head as the world went black briefly.
When he opened his eyes once more, he was alone and lying on the floor in a pool of his own blood. The light above him has blinking annoyingly. He was surrounded by needles he's used to inject drugs into his bloodstream along with the razor blades he used on himself to get that same feeling of getting a high. He felt cold and heavy, unable to bring himself to do anything but look at the figure standing in the doorway. There was a young boy, having raven black hair and blue eyes just like him. He was standing in horror, tears in his eyes as if he couldn't believe what he was seeing. John couldn't either when he realized that this boy was him, and he would soon become the man he was now.
I might add another chapter (probably won't be for a while or so since I've mastered the art of procrastination this year), but for now, I'll mark this as a completed work.
