Keep in happiness and torture me
AN: So this is the third part of my Blackinnon non magic AU series and I'm not going to say much except I'm sorry and uh, yes there's a trigger warning for this so please be careful. x
He knows she's not happy, he can see it in her eyes which are radically dulled from the bright, expressive blue they used to be. He noticed how she doesn't sing under her breath anymore, short, sweet verses whispered out in her breathy, beautiful voice. Now she haunts the house in silence, her head hung low, her scraggly blonde hair falling all over her face. It's his fault he knows it is. If he'd had gotten help when he had the chance maybe things would be different. He wouldn't be trapped in his mind, desperately, endlessly running in the dark towards and exit that will never set him free. If you asked him he's say he's just having a bad bout, but this bad bout has lasted for years and it isn't ending anytime soon. He knows it's killing her inside seeing him like this, unresponsive and seemingly emotionless, if only she knew the emotional torment that was destroying his mind.
He hates himself. All he can think about is his flaws and its filling his head and suffocating him from the inside out. He hates how he can never be what she wants or needs since he can barely keep himself alive. He hates how his so called "family" never cared about him. And he hates how much he hates himself. He'd give anything to not feel this way, to be able to live the way he's always dreamed of. But he can't. It's too late now.
He loves her, really he does so much that it hurts and he wants to show her, prove it to her but he can't, not anymore. How can he? He can't even prove to himself that he's still living and not just existing. He just wants her to be happy and he knows that the only way that'll ever happen is without him. She'll be better off out of this catastrophe of a relationship, better off without him, the ultimate fuck up. She deserves the life he's taken from her in the last six years, she deserves so much more than him. So he's breaking off this train wreck relationship, ending it, setting her free in more poetic terms. He watches her sullen face as she attempts to bring some normality to her life by cooking and he can't help but mentally apologise for making her this way.
He ends up retiring to their bedroom a few hours later, his mind exhausted, his body deadened.
He can't sleep. His thoughts are blurred, his mind whirring. It's 3am and he can't sleep but this time it's something more than insomnia keeping him awake. He's leaving her, for her own good. He's never felt this strongly about something in years so he takes that as a sign that what he's doing is right. But the immensity of what he's doing to the both of them hits him full force, his chest tightening. But 'Maybe, maybe he should,' he thinks 'she doesn't need him anyway'. He looks to his left, to where she's curled up next to him in their bed, her slightly damp hair framing her face, her full, red lips pulled into a frown. He hates knowing that he is the cause of her frown, the cause of her distress. He lowers himself to press one last lingering kiss to the soft skin of her cheek.
"Sorry" he whispers to her sleeping form.
His body's on autopilot as he gets up and gets dressed in a pair of jeans and a The Beatles top she bought him years ago, claiming he looked beautiful in it. He fumbles in a drawer for a pen and paper to write her a note, to tell her he's leaving. This, he thinks, is the cowards' way out, but he couldn't bear saying goodbye directly to her face. His mind is a mess of apologies and beautiful, unspoken metaphors as his hand flies across the page, spilling out every feeling, thought, everything he was too scared to say. His pen encompasses the self loathing he feels at choosing to leave, his own mental distress but more than anything his love for her. He writes 'I love you' in as many different variations as he can think of, the words covering the paper so many times, only second to 'I'm sorry'. He folds the paper meticulously, still concerned with neatness when planning to break her heart. He leaves the note on his pillow, he knows it'll be the first thing she'll see in the morning.
He's scared out of his mind, he's leaving everything he's ever known, and he's leaving her. But he knows this is the right decision, he can't be a burden on her happiness any longer. He's saving her from himself, something he should've done a long time ago. He thinks back to those nights out on the ledge just them two against the world. It seemed easy then, like all of their sadness would fade away as long as they were together. It never worked out like that, not for long. They had deluded themselves for a long time that they were happy, that they had made it out of the fog but they were really being dragged deeper and deeper into the abyss. He's at rock bottom and he's never getting back up, he's never given himself the chance to and now he's trapped, victim of his own mind.
He lets his feet carry him to the door, pushing it open and coming face to face with their bathroom. He walks to the sink, twists the tap and cups the cold water to splash on his face. He looks up at his reflection and he winces, his eyes are dull, no longer the enticing stormy grey but a deep black. His face is gaunt, a result of his extreme lack of appetite. His hair is matted, he can hardly bring himself to eat let alone brush his hair. He doesn't know when it all got this bad, he was fine, he was coping and now he can barely breathe, he's choking on his own misery and he hates that he ended up like this. He never wanted to end up being the stereotype but here he is and he's never hated himself more. He looks back down at the sink holding onto to each side so tightly his hands are white, it's now or never, he thinks, letting out a mirthless laugh.
He opens the first cabinet to his left and pulls out two bottles of painkillers and a razor. He stares at the objects in his hand, directly looking at the objects that are going to kill him and he's scared out of his mind. There's no turning back now he's made his decision, and she'll be better off without him as he only ever caused her pain. But even so he can't help but feel he's making a mistake, that he should put them away, walk out the bathroom and go back to sleep. He wants to feel like that'd work, that he'd be able to go back out there, slip into bed and wake up tomorrow like nothing's happened, like this momentary lapse of judgement, this breakdown hasn't happened. As soon as the thought cross his mind he almost cries out with the ridiculousness of it, this situation is only ever going to get worse unless he removes the problem, himself.
He's sure of it now, what he's doing is right, it has to be, he's doing it for her and only her because she's the only thing that's mattered to him in years. He hasn't thought about own his needs in years, that's obvious, and maybe if he had he wouldn't be in this situation now, with tears running down his face, pale face staring back at him in the mirror, murder weapons sitting neatly by the sink. He pulls apart the razor first, snapping the plastic and retrieving the thin slices of metal the same way he did many times before in his early teens. He holds it gently with his fingers examining the cool blade before setting it down on the counter in front of him, his hand sneaking to one of the small bottles instead. He twists them both open, dumping the contents of one bottle into his palm. After studying the small mound of pills he starts swallowing them, one...two...three, until he can't keep count. He's swallowed all of the pills from the bottle now, his vision is going fuzzy but he needs to finish this so he picks up the razor. He has no time to think about what he's doing as he drags the blade vertically down both forearms, blood spilling into the sink below him, staining his hands, the porcelain, his senses, red. He wants to call out for her, scream her name but he can barely get small whimpers to fall past his lips. He reaches for the second bottle frantically swallowing handfuls of pills. He's numb. He can't feel the pain in his arms anymore, well he'd be slightly concerned if he did considering how many painkillers he took. Godammit Sirius, now is not the time for your morbid humour, you are bleeding out on your bathroom floor and you're making jokes? You always were an idiot. This is why your parents hated you.
He's losing consciousness now, his once racing thoughts are slowing down, coming to a halt as he slips to the floor. This is it, his heart is fluttering erratically, the metallic taste of blood filling his mouth. His blood pools around him as he struggles to breathe. His heartbeat has slowed dramatically barely fluttering as he closes his eyes and awaits his fate. It's here now, he knows it, he welcomes it and as he takes his last breath, he stutters out his final word 'Marlene'.
The next morning everything is silent, the only noises being the unfolding of a letter, the hiccup of choked sobs, the creak of a wooden door and the broken whisper of 'Sirius'.
AN: So that's it. I just have to say to anyone who's reading this, if anyone does, please, please please don't make the same decision I had Sirius make. I know sometimes it feels like the only way out but it's not and I can't promise that things will get better but I will say that the world is huge and there's so much you could miss out on if you end your life prematurely. I just want to say if you or someone you know/care about or even and acquaintance is feeling this way that you are not alone and you mean so much more to someone then you think. Along the lines of the actual story, the ending kind of happened of its own accord, it came as a surprise to me as I wrote it but I do like the arc the story has taken. This has taken me almost four months to write mainly during the editing process and even now I think it's horribly rushed so I'm sorry for that. Uh, if you enjoyed it then thank you but I don't really think anyone will, but at the same time I wrote this for me.