This appears to be my new plan - throw random oneshots out and hope people remember who the hell I am. Anyway, I thought this one up randomly while reading Danse Macabre by Stephen King.
I know the pairing I intended here; let's see what you come up with. xD
Enjoy.
I am - was - immeasurably selfish. That's what people told me; no doubt that's what they tell her to try and ease the pain. He didn't care about you in the end, don't blame yourself.
I watch her as she curls up under the bedcovers, tears soaking into the pillow as she cries silently.
I did care. I told her not to miss me in the note, is it really my fault that she couldn't stop herself?
It's odd, how I heard so many people wandering around in the immediate aftermath saying, "Did you notice anything different? No, I didn't either. He must have been so messed-up inside ..."
Suicide equals depression, equals, madness, equals needing it to end.
There is no gap in that logic that accounts for why I, a perfectly sane man, would get up, kiss my girlfriend hello, have breakfast, do all the daily chores of life with two small deviances; the writing of a little note that still stays where I put it on the bedside table, and a change in the route home where I calculated the right time and jumped into the path of an express train.
To be pretty blunt, I topped myself.
Society's insistence that there needs to be something wrong; drastically, horribly wrong, for someone to end their own life annoyed me, when I was alive. Why? What's wrong with people just getting fed up of it all? That was my view, I just ... got bored. Yes, the general use of the method is as a way out of hell - mine was just as an ending to a normal life. Why not? Why not just ... stop?
She reaches out to the empty side of the bed, finds nothing. Her face crumples again.
Now, I know the reason; too late. The people you leave behind.
I suppose it's my early life to blame - my childhood was spent alone, I got used to thinking that no-one would miss me. Pity, that it took death to show me that I'd somehow accumulated people who would. Only a friendless recluse would honestly have no-one left to miss him.
I thought about her and the others briefly beforehand, but comforted myself with the thought that I wouldn't be around to know whether they grieved or not. That's where the hole in my philosophy gaped wide; that's what has left me stranded here, floating among the people I knew and watching their bereavement., knowing that I can't reach out to comfort them and tell them that I'm sorry, I didn't realize, I didn't know.
If I had another chance, would I never have taken that detour, ripped up the note before she got home?
Maybe, maybe not.
This might not happen a second time. I might just disappear, like I was supposed to.
I'm inherently selfish. That's the truth.
It's weird and random. No flames please, I know it could be seen as a bit contraversial.
Tell me which pairing you think it is:)
xIlbx
