He has had too much time to think. He was so lost in thought he didn't notice he was running the steps. Just like his father. It wasn't long before he was in the same room, on the same bed, the same way his father was before him. He was probably thinking the same thing his father was before he did it. Too much at the same time. It was quiet, like it was when his father did it.
He knew what would be left behind. But a drunk sister and a gambling mother wasn't much. All the money was spent on alcohol or otherwise lost. His mother wasn't a very good gambler. The bills hadn't been paid in months. He had tried to help bring in money, but it was all gone before he could get groceries.
He wouldn't matter as much as his father did. They stopped caring after him. Why should he matter anyways?
He went through the motions, as he always did, brainlessly doing what he needed to do. He thought the same things he always did. For five years he's done the same thing. For five years he's tried to do what his father did. For five years he's failed to do what his father did. For five years he's been stuck in a dark abyss he couldn't climb out of, no light at the end of the tunnel. No slither of hope. Now, he can finally end it. Now, sitting on the bed his father did before, holding the same thing used to take his own life, he could end it.
He looked around at the room. Nothing was the same as before. The bed had to be replaced, it had too much blood covering it. No one could clean it. The walls were repainted. Occasionally, you could still smell the gunpowder. Sometimes, littles spots of dried blood was recovered. His father's presence was still there. Sometimes, he felt it help guide the gun to his head, move his finger to the trigger.
He didn't need help this time. He could put the gun up to his head by himself. He could put his finger on the trigger by himself. He can pull the trigger by himself. After five years, he can do this on his own.
Death wasn't like in the movies. There was no line to the afterlife, no bright light to follow. There was no light at all, it was completely dark. For a long time, there was nothing.
When the darkness went away, he found himself at his own funeral. An old, dingy church that was falling apart. The lights flickered. No one cried. There weren't many people, some family that lived nearby. No one who actually cared about him. His sister stumbled up to the microphone and babbled in some drunk, incomprehensible way then rushed to a corner to vomit. The cliche 'He's in a better place' or 'He was a good boy' was said and everyone sat down in an uncomfortable silence. The tension could almost be seen. He walked up to his body. It didn't surprise him that his body hadn't even been cleaned. Maggots lived where his brain used to be. It's probably still all over the wall. He was wearing the same clothes he died in. Blood splattered his shirt and dried down his face. He smelled disgusting. Rotten. He wanted to puke. It wasn't long before his body was finally six feet underground.
The days passed on. His mother and sister moved out of the apartment. Apparently it smelled almost unbearable since his body had been in that room for a few days. Being dead was no fun. He walked the streets day and night, occasionally scaring some teenagers at the park. But he never went back to that place. He knew his father would be there waiting for him to come back. He was never going back there.
He stopped at his old school and watched the classes he actually enjoyed while alive. He watched the kids while they ate lunch or talked to one another. It was nice to finally not be thrown into a locker or wall for once. No one messed with him because his father was a 'dead-beat who couldn't handle reality like a real man'. Maybe they're saying the same thing about him.
He remembered the girl who was murdered by her own brother. Everyone put cards and flowers by her locker and held a candlelight vigil for her. He didn't get any of it. Maybe his death wasn't as honorable and humble as hers. Maybe they expected it from him.
Wandering the school wasn't much fun. People talked about him for almost a month, then he became yesterday's news. But he began to feel like he was being watched after two months. He was sure no one could see him though. At least he thought no one could see him. He thought it was just from being surrounded by so many people.
After three months, he was sure someone was watching him. Maybe it was another dead person. Maybe it was the girl who was murdered. What was her name again? Celine? Sally? Savanna? Sarah? Sarah. Maybe Sarah was watching him. But why won't they come talk to him?
Four months in and he was tired of being watched. It was time to find who it was. Days go by, no luck. You would think being dead would give him an advantage. Not at all. The feeling stayed and eventually he gave up, later forgetting about it all together.
Two weeks into the fourth month, he was sitting by the tree in the courtyard watching the people talk and eat. He was actually enjoying himself until a deep voice disrupted his thoughts.
"John Watson. Sixteen years old. Died from a gunshot to the head, self inflicted. Father died in the same way five years ago. I've never had the pleasure of meeting him, sadly, but going from the way you cower away from men around the age of forty and the fresh bruises you came to school with, I take he wasn't a very nice man. I am right, aren't I." It wasn't a question.
He was shocked. Could this kid really see him?
"Oh, please close your mouth. Just because you're dead doesn't mean you shouldn't have manners. You look like a gaping fish."
Touchy much? He felt the urge to stick his tongue out at him. But that would be childish and this boy seems anything but.
"So, you can see me? Like, actually?"
The boy sighed. "Of course. But that's been established by now, thank you."
"How can you see me? No one else can."
"That's irrelevant right now." The boy honestly had no idea how. "Now was I right?"
He was confused by that question. Right about what? We just met. "What do you me-"
"About your father! Don't be an idiot, John. He wasn't a very nice man. I would say a drunk that would abuse you in his fits."
"Were you.. Were you stalking me? No one knows that but my family."
The boy scoffed at that. "Be reasonable, John. I observed. I would rather leave the stalking to the whale I have to call a brother."
"You observed that my father was an abusive drunk?" This was starting to get out of hand for him.
"Yes, John. The bell is about to ring for classes so meet me here after school, if possible." What did he mean 'if possible'? Of course it's possible. The bell rang and the boy started to run off. But something was missing.
"Wait, I don't even know your name!" Before the boy could answer, he was dragged off into the school and to class, leaving John with only his thoughts.
The day went by slowly. All he could think of was the boy who could see him. Has that boy been watching him this whole time? The thought of it was scary but exciting. Someone could see him, talk to him. If someone had told him he would be craving human contact - wait, no one ever talked to him, they only yelled or complained in drunken slurs. He never thought he would ever want to talk to anyone as much as he wants to talk to this boy. When school was over, he went to the tree to meet the boy.
"Took you long enough." The boy was leaning against the tree, smoking a cigarette.
"Those things will kill you, you know?"
The boy sighed. "Don't be dull, John."
He had to resist the urge to roll his eyes at the boy. "Why did you want to meet me here in the first place?"
Suddenly, the boy looked like a kid in a candy store and smiled. "I want to meet your father."