Based off of "Wristcutters: A Love Story". I haven't seen it in years, but I'm going along with a plot summary and expanding it as much as I can. Oh my gosh, I'm getting such a sick kick from this so far, but don't worry, you won't have to deal with much more John bleeding out and dying (Or WILL YOU?). But I really hope you enjoy this chapter especially, since it came from my current state of mind. Fanfiction helps relieve it all~
The flat was small. So small it was suffocating. It drove John mad. All his mind could do was race. As he paced the room – really only four or five steps wide—he kicked past every box and pile of laundry in his way. His throat was so dry he was forced to gulp down his saliva to keep from choking. He coughed. His heart pounded. His chest rose and fell swiftly. He couldn't keep his muscles from twitching. His leg gave out from under him, causing him to fall to the floor. He cursed. What am I going to do with myself!?
He had been with Mary for over two years. It was the longest he had ever been with someone, the closest he had ever been to anyone—if you did not count his sister. How she could just up and leave him for someone else he could never understand. But now he was completely alone. Trapped in a cold cement room without anyone who cared about him.
Harry committed suicide very recently, leaving him no family to rely on, even if she was never very reliable in the first place. She was something.
He climbed back to his feet trudging to the end of the room where a small desk sat. His laptop's battery was draining. The screen went dark and it shut off. John ignored it. He reached for the top drawer, removing a notebook to reveal a nice, little handgun. He got it from Harry. Never thought it would come to this. He swallowed more spit to ease his throat, then taking in a deep breath, traversed to the bathroom.
He kicked to door open, but it flung back at him as it smacked pathetically against a box from behind it. He punched the door angrily, causing a portion of the box to stick out from the gap beneath the door, holding it open. He dropped the gun on the counter and stared at himself in the mirror.
He wore jeans and an undershirt which was thin enough to see the disgusting scar on his shoulder. He yanked at his hair, falling to the tile and sobbing. He slipped a hand up to grab the gun. Maybe I'll see you soon, Harriet…
John looked down at it. His heart sank. He checked the barrel to ensure it was fully loaded. His head fell back into the bathroom's cabinets. He wiped the tears out of his eyes, frustrated but frightened. How awful it had been to see his sister lying dead in her flat, brains blown across the room. He had seen enough from the war. He's had enough.
Cocking the gun, the image came back to him. How awfully messy it was…but was there really that clean of a way of doing this? He felt a wave of nausea come over him, and he almost gagged. His hand fell down into a small drop of blood on the floor. It led him to look at his arms. It may not be much cleaner, but it is less gruesome….
He pulled out a new box of razors. Plucking one out of the box by the safe end, he stared longingly at it. I should have done this years ago.
He cut over old scars, made new ones, and winced as he dug deeply into already raw flesh. It pooled on top of his arms, spilling over onto his jeans and his faded white shirt. He only just noticed he was sobbing, but it abruptly stopped. It became harder and harder to breathe. He couldn't tell if he was breathing. He began to fall over onto his side. He stared as his own blood pooled around him. His blue eyes faded, and his blonde hair was soaked red. His muscles slowly stopped shaking as he took his last breath.