Gary never thought it'd end like this.
He thought he'd always have his friends, always have Andy. That his life would be full of parties and girls and friendship, just like that day.
Turns out at almost 40 years old, having none of that, his life is just going from bar to bar living in a shit apartment that he was only able to keep because his mum sent him money, and even then his rent was late because he used last month's money to buy more drugs.
He stared at his phone where his mum's contact information showed. He knows, in a small corner of his mind, that he should call her — call Andy — but the last time he talked to her was months ago while high in a random alley.
(He doesn't remember the last time he talked to Andy.)
The razor in his hand, rusted from long use, suddenly weighed a ton as he lifted to his wrists. He always expects it to hurt, but it never does. All he can feel is the numbness and the blood running down his hands and making a mess on his floor and clothes.
He watches the door, waiting. As if at anytime they're going to show up to be there for him. Peter, Oliver, Steve and Andy. One of them, any of them.
He feels his consciousness fade away as he waits, his vision blurring and fading to black, his mind full of despair and relief, the blood loss making him feel high in a way no drug ever did.
Why aren't they coming?
(Why isn't he coming?)
When he wakes up in the hospital, head hurting from the hangover and blood loss, he barely listen to the doctor and nurse as they tell him what happened — the old lady from 12B called the police about the loud music and they found him in his bathroom barely alive with a razor still in his hands. They tell him about his condition, that he can't leave, and ask about an emergency contact. He refuses to give any.
All that goes through his head is, that in the end, they didn't come for him.
They never would.