Violet Hill

by elvisdepressedly

Since the 1960's, Briarcliff Hospital has transformed from an insane asylum to a state of the art treatment center: just the kind place Kit Walker needs to be in after his suicide attempt. While there, he becomes infatuated with longtime patient Violet Harmon, who doesn't feel the same way about him–yet. Violet/Kit AU. Rated M for language, violence, triggers, and sexuality.

1. Attempt (Introduction)

That's all I've learned: to suffer.

Pink, orange, green, white. Like madras pants worn by a pretty girl on Martha's Vineyard. Much like the girls on the Vineyard, some of the pills were long and skinny. Unlike the girls there, some of them were round and fat. Cupping them all in my hand was like trying to contain a handful of sand, trying to hold an overflow. The little green ones were the hardest to keep from falling to the countertop, keep from rolling off and jumping against the hard surface with a series of ping, ping, ping sounds. There was no way I would have been able to swallow all of them at once. I lowered my hand right above the surface of the counter and slowly let them fall onto the linoleum, only a few bouncing and scattering away from the central pile that spilled down. Pink, orange, green, white. Everyone said death was black. Never did they say it would be pink, orange, green, white.

I couldn't figure out what way was the best way to do this. It wasn't something you were taught, or could be taught, or should be taught. It was something you had to figure out for yourself–like how to properly move inside of a girl, or how to get really good at writing, or how to position yourself in bed so you fall asleep the fastest. Only an individual can learn how to best do these things for himself. Suicide wouldn't be any different than the other things I'd done: I'd have to figure it out on my own.

Split them up evenly. Three piles. One, two, three, four in one pile, and another pile, and another pile, until they were separated into three small groups rather than one too-big heap. I curled my fingers and swept the first pile, the one on the far left, into the palm of my open hand. Pink, orange, green, white. They stuck to my tongue like ice, their chalky, uncoated surface leaving my mouth bitter. Take a gulp of water. Swallow. Thirty-three percent complete. Repeat the procedure once more, twice more. Sweep pills into hand, bring pills into mouth, bring glass to lips, swallow. Repeat. The water was cold, and I could feel it trickle down my insides. It felt nice. For the first time in a long time, something felt nice.

The pills went down much more smoothly than they had in my fantasies. I expected to feel something, some sort of triumphant swell in my chest as I lay down on my bed and waited to fall asleep, go down, down, down, until I was so far in I couldn't be pulled back out. I expected to anticipate the end with a sense of relief, or maybe accomplishment, or pride in having finally mustered up the courage to do it. But my mind got stuck on how easy it was, how normal I felt. How dying is not much different than living. One lasted longer, but they felt just about the same.

I was vaguely aware of my cat licking my face, rubbing his face against mine, meowing urgently. I wanted to pet him while I still could, but my arms were too heavy to lift. Everything was too heavy. He climbed onto me, curling right below my chin like he'd done when he was a kitten, and it was mildly comforting to feel his purring against my chest. It was duller than I remember, more distant. Everything was heavy, and everything was dull.

All I remember seeing before falling asleep was the slow blurring of the ceiling fan, its hum combined with the sound of my cat's purring and my own voice repeating to him over and over that it would be okay. It'll be okay, buddy. It's okay.