.:The End:.
I do not own Naruto.
Suicidal theme, mention of self mutilation.
You have been warned.
Sitting there, then, it didn't seem like such a bad idea.
Or perhaps it did. He wasn't quite sure what made him feel quite so sad about deciding it. It was his fate; his destiny. Control thy destiny.
The salt stung his eyes as he began to shake; blubbering pathetically as he sat there, contemplating, wondering. Forehead creased; lips trembling. Pathetic to the very end.
He had never been quite sure why the dark clouds picked him; why it was always raining, always winter in a summer town. It had started with the frowns; disappointment, as ever; nothing there to quell the emptiness growing inside of him. That emptiness, that slowly dissolved everything that was ever him and left him a hollow shell; bleeding his troubles out whenever he felt pathetic enough to give in. How pathetic.
As he sat, he wondered if he would be missed. He wondered if the red-head he had met the other day would remember him, and wonder what could have been; he wondered if the upbeat blonde would mourn, finally breaking down after so long. He wondered of his family; his parents, ever present, but unable to stop him as his destructiveness snowballed. So good at hiding it, now, that not even they noticed as his world turned to ashes. They, who had known him all his life; who were trying to help, make him see people who would 'help' him; they who had ultimately failed him. They, who could not even notice as their only son cried alone, mind tainted and shadowed as the snow fell nearby.
He could always hear them laughing. He hated laughter. Selfishly, perhaps; but why not? Detest, what thou cannot have. Do unto others as they do unto you. Laughter made him feel like crap. Everyone else was always so happy. They made him miserable; never tried, never asked; so he, in turn, never bothered with them.
Towards the end, he grew so tired he could barely be bothered to leave the warmth of his bed; though he could not feel much anymore. No emotion, no heat nor cold, no pain. Pain, his most trusted resource, had ultimately betrayed him. The flesh no longer yielded satisfaction.
He stared blankly at the wall facing him; loathing it, as it mocked him. The television was blaring downstairs; he could hear muffled voices from its speakers below his room. His parents were awake still; it would have to wait.
The tears on his face no longer prompted sobs; he let his eyes bleed the liquid silently as all feeling once again left him. He wasn't really there, of course; he could have been floating, millions of miles away from this body, for all he could feel.
He thought of those that had known him for who he once was. Of course; none of them knew him now; that Sasuke was long gone. He had died, the moment he brought the blood to his skin himself; the moment he had embraced pain as his saviour; his Emmanuel. He wondered if they would miss him. He wondered, if they would wonder. Perhaps, they would think, like him, about what could have been. How he might have grown up, fallen in love, raised a family; but in reality, Sasuke knew that none of that would happen. He decided at the age of twelve that he never wanted to grow up; determined that he would end it all, at the very latest at thirty. Eternal youth, huh.
He pulled out his notebook; the one that he had received last Christmas. It had been a gift; arriving in his stocking, the family tradition that he and his sister followed. He had written in it once; a couple of pages of pure angst pouring from him as he wallowed in his own self-pity. Taking the lid from his pen, he began to write. He felt truly guilty as the words spilled onto the paper; none of them deserved this; he just couldn't go on like this anymore.
He heard the television downstairs turn off, and footsteps climbing the stairs heavily. He wiped his face with the back of his sleeve and continued writing his farewell; even as his mother poked her head round his bedroom door.
"Sleep, Sasuke. Turn your computer off."
He simply smiled at her, the fake expression plastered to his face.
"I will, don't worry; I'm just finishing my English essay, mum."
She nodded.
"Don't be too long, okay?" She smiled at him. "Night."
"I love you." He blurted out, and she looked surprised.
"I love you too, Sasuke." And then she left.
Sasuke couldn't help feeling hurt. Set on his decision now, he carried on writing. He ignored his father as he entered the same room Sasuke's mother had entered. He didn't need to say anything.
The next couple of hours went painfully slowly; he needed to wait until they were properly asleep. Going downstairs for water was fair enough, but being down there for the length of time he was going to need...not so subtle. His parents were 'on guard' against him trying to end it all; the result of his foolish previous attempt. Everything was 'gone'. He wasn't stupid, and had found where most of the items had been hidden. Some in a bedroom drawer, a collage bag, the back of two cupboards, some on the side...and then, of course, there was always the liquid forms. Why they hadn't hidden them, he had no idea. Idiots. If I were my son, I'd have gotten rid of everything. Sod being ill; there were other issues.
He finally crept downstairs at 3:00am, trying to make as little noise as possible. He cringed inside as the kitchen door creaked loudly upon being opened; and worried as the light made a loud noise as it started up. He hovered there, one foot in midair as he tried to work out whether he had awoken anyone; a large snore from above answered his question. So far, so good.
He opened the cupboard, and took down a bottle he knew nobody would check. Fluoxetine. From what he had researched; pretty damn near impossible to overdose on, but it couldn't help towards his total. The liquid was a strong mint flavour; absolutely vile and stung his mouth and throat, but he downed about half of the bottle. He then proceeded to take one pill out of every packet of anything in the cupboard, finally slowing his intake at the paracetamol.
Ahhh, paracetamol. My old friend.
He took the package from the back of the cupboard; not so well hidden, mother. He took an entire sheet of the pills out from the box, and swallowed every single one he had removed. Returning the sheet to the box, he put the box back in its 'hiding' place. And promptly went to find the next box.
He had no idea how many he'd taken by the time he stopped; but his throat felt funny after dry-swallowing so many small, hard objects and he felt faintly nauseous. He calmly walked upstairs and went to bed, as though nothing had happened.
He felt awful the next morning. Sick to the bones. He wondered, slightly bemused, slightly annoyed why he wasn't dead. He had hoped that by taking lots, it would kill him quicker; evidently, not so.
He vaguely hoped his mother didn't get a headache anytime in the hours, or perhaps days that were to follow before his final farewell.
He wanted to be able to wave the world off on his own accord; and he didn't want to wind up in hospital with his stomach being pumped.
He left the house, feeling at peace, having accepted his near future. It was sunny, and the birds were chirping as he walked to his bus stop, a cool breeze blowing through his soft black hair. It was on days like this, that he truly appreciated just how beautiful life was.