The Art of Suicide
Title is taken from Emilie Autumn's song "The Art of Suicide"
Lyrics at the end are from the same song.
Butters S.
TW: Suicide
Butters Stotch had been miserable for years. It had started when he was very young. His parents would ground him for something silly little thing, or his friends would lie to him or blame him for something and he'd feel this little black cloud forming over his head. Being a child, however, he was usually able to push those bad feelings away and go on about his life.
He couldn't do it anymore.
Nothing seemed to work. Trying to put on a smile and being the little ray of sunshine that he used to be was more of a chore than anything. He just couldn't make himself smile or laugh. He couldn't even be amused when Cartman got verbally lashed by Wendy, or when Kenny would try to cheer him up. The little black cloud had kept growing and becoming more overwhelming as he'd gotten older until he could hardly carry its weight anymore. It had gotten so bad that the dark cloud had infected his dreams, terrorizing him nightly with awful visions that he really didn't care to think about upon waking. He'd been reduced to sleeping very little and drinking unhealthy amounts of coffee just to get through the day. Sometimes the kids at school would say he was turning into Tweek Tweak.
He stood up, walking to the window in his bedroom and pulling the curtains shut. He couldn't stand the sunshine anymore. Not when he had all this darkness surrounding him, choking him and making it harder to breathe. Blowing out a harsh sigh, he went to his door, shutting it, but not locking it. His parents deserved to walk in on what he was about to leave for them. He'd left school early today for just this reason. Their cruelty had driven him to this more than anything else. They put on the guise of caring for him, of being loving parents, but, they were nothing short of monsters. His mother cared more for her TV shows than for her own son and his father would find any excuse to take out his unchecked rage on him. He still had a bruise on his cheek from a week ago when his father had found out that he hadn't taken out the trash as soon as he'd been told.
And that had been a "light punishment", as his father had said.
His mother might be upset, maybe. His father would probably just complain that he couldn't ground his son because he was dead. A humorless laugh escaped Butters at that thought.
At least he wouldn't have to clean up the mess. That would be his last "fuck you" to his parents. They'd have to clean up the mess they made for once.
That was all Butters could compare himself to, really. A big, stupid, failure-at-life mess. His father had threatened him to make straight A's or else. Butters did his best, but, he wasn't all that great at the AP versions of science and math classes. He'd made a few B's and his father had basically told him he was dead to him. Well, he wouldn't have to worry about that anymore. On top of that, Butters had told them (before he'd decided that life really wasn't worth bothering for anymore) that he'd wanted to pursue writing in college. Both of his parents had squashed that dream, triggering his tenuous grasp on happiness to morph into a depression that had quickly spiraled out of control. It didn't help that Butters' preferences seemed to leaning toward men. He had never brought that up, though, for fear of his parents actually committing murder. He hardly thought about it, really. Even if he did acknowledge the fact that boys were way more attractive than girls, no one would want to bother with him anyway, especially in this stupid mountain town. No one wanted anything to do with him anyway, except maybe Kenny.
He looked at his bed, biting his lip. The only friend he had in the world was Kenny. Kenny didn't hang out with him much, nor did they talk about many deep things, but, Kenny had always been there to listen, at least. One day, in junior year, they'd been sitting on the steps behind the school, just talking for the sake of talking. Kenny had taken a drag of his cigarette, looked up at the sky and said, "You know, I'd like to fly. I think that would be pretty cool to go up so high in the air." Butters had looked at him, wondering where this random thought had come from. "I don't know, Kenny. Think about fallin' from a height like that." Kenny turned and looked at him, blinking before he shrugged, taking another drag of his cigarette.
"I think that falling from that high would be amazing. You'd be completely free."
Completely free. No worries. No attachments. Nothing. Just pure freedom. That was what Butters had longed for all these years.
Butters knelt down by his bed, pulling a box out from under it. He opened it, tossing old school papers and random junk to the carpet and reaching in, pulling out the gun he'd hidden there a few weeks ago. Butters had never shot a gun or wanted one in his possession in his entire life. The only reason why he had it was because Kenny had come over one night. He'd been drunk at some party and couldn't make it home, so he'd called Butters on someone else's phone, asking to stay. Butters had had to sneak Kenny inside, which was not an easy feat considering who his parents were. Kenny had passed out then gotten up and gone home before Butters' parents woke up, but, while Butters was making his bed, he'd found the gun lying in the floor. It was obviously Kenny's and it was obviously not supposed to be in his possession. At first, Butters had been horrified. He was about to try to catch Kenny when he heard his mother walking out of her bedroom, so he grabbed it and stuffed it in the box, kicking it under his bed. Now, he was glad Kenny had left it. When the other boy had asked if he'd left it there, Butters had played stupid. He had already been thinking of what he was going to do, even then.
It's not like anyone would really care, anyway. The teachers at school ignored him, much like the students. No one seemed to be worried when he would show up to school with swollen eyes and a limp from getting the shit kicked out of his by his abusive father the night before. They were all to busy with their own lives to give two shits about Butters Stotch, the kid everyone had written off long ago in middle school. Kenny would probably be the only person to mourn him. That thought sent a tiny pang of guilt through him, but he shook it off. Kenny had so many friends. He was better off without him, really. Laying the gun on his covers, he got up and grabbed a piece of paper from his desk and a pen. He thought for a moment, then simply wrote, I'm sorry, on it, folding it up and writing Kenny's name on the top. He wasn't going to leave a sappy 'woe-is-me' note for anyone to find. He had always thought that was pretty stupid when people would do that then commit suicide. Why would they care if people found a note? They'd be dead.
He stood up straight and looked around his room-his own personal hell for as long as he remembered-and shook his head. Good riddance. He was tired of trying. So tired of never getting a break. So tired of being used, abused and neglected. He knew adult life wouldn't be any different, no matter where he went. He was Butters Stotch, a failure in his parents' eyes, friend to practically no one, changer of no lives.
He had no purpose to fulfill. No passion left in his weary young mind. No love in his heart for anything or anyone.
He had nothing. And that was okay.
Some people were meant for greatness. Some were meant to just be a blip on the radar and gone.
Butters lifted the gun, looking at it and cocking it. The cold metal tingled under his fingertips and he savored the feeling. It was the last thing he'd ever feel. He briefly wondered if he should be more upset or cry. Most people were upset when they killed themselves, right?
Oh well. He didn't really need to dwell on that, anyway.
He put the cold tip of the gun to his right temple and closed his tired blue eyes. Taking a final deep breath, he felt himself smile.
"Finally. I'll get some peace."
He exhaled and pulled the trigger.
Why live a life
That's painted with pity
And sadness and strife
Why dream a dream
That's tainted with trouble
And less than it seems
Why bother bothering
Just for a poem
Or another sad song to sing
Why live a life
Why live a life
The End