As far as suicide methods go, jumping never appealed to him. What if you jump and it's not high enough? Broken bones, broken neck, mangled, bloody body. Could take you hours to die, if you die at all.
He picks up a tin can and tosses it down into the pit. It falls and falls and the black just swallows it whole. Without a sound.
He shudders, pulling his coat tighter around his body.
Well at least Papyrus wouldn't have to see him that way. The pit is too deep. No one would find his body, or his ashes. He'd just be gone one day. Swallowed up by the void heh...fitting...
Would that be too cruel, to do that to his brother? Put him through the emotional limbo of never knowing what happened to him? Would leaving a note explaining everything be better? Would leaving a note that told sweet lies of him being on vacation be better?
Sans digs his hands into his pockets.
This is selfish. Papyrus needs him. He's just trying to shirk his responsibilities. He's just trying to escape the inescapable. Selfish. Stupid.
He trudges back to the shore, sloshing water around as he struggles fruitlessly to keep his sopping slippers on his feet. One of them falls off. He dives for it, but it goes over the edge before he can stop it. Well. Oh well...
He doesn't have the heart to euthanize it's twin. He hobbles home, sans a slipper. Haha, Sans a slipper...classic…
He's still soaking. Frost collects on his jacket. He's shaking so hard his bones clatter together like some sort of fucked up musical instrument. He keeps walking. Lets the cold seep into his bones. Lets himself become numb.
He trudges for as long as he can bear, then finally gives in and teleports home. It's not long. He judges his own weakness.
When he gets home, Papyrus asks where his slipper is. Sans says it must've slipped off somewhere.
Papyrus asks why he's all wet. Sans mutters that's what she said.
Papyrus shrieks both times. Sans manages a smile. Papyrus doesn't ask anymore questions. Sans doesn't offer anymore answers.
He gets to his room, tired from walking up the stairs. Tired from standing. He strips, puts on a new coat and boxers, and lays down on his bed. It's too much work. It's all too much work.
He tries to cry. No tears come. He tries to laugh. He succeeds, but the laughter is hollow and empty. Heh, what a coincidence; so is his soul.
He gets up and roots around in his desk drawer. He takes out some sleeping pills.
He stares at them just a little too long. It's tempting. It's always tempting.
The last thing he wants is for Papyrus to find his ashes in the house, though.
He takes a few too many, but not enough to be really dangerous. He lays back down and lets the darkness overtake him. Sleep is his kind of thing after all - all the benefits of being dead without the effort, or the commitment. Just as well. Sans really hates both of those things.