Every day at three she would message you, just like clockwork. You don't know why she did it, but she did. It had started over a sweep ago, she randomly sent you an I.M on Trollian and just like that a friendship of sorts had blossomed. She mostly talked to you about your health; have you been eating, did you shower today, are you wearing clean clothes? It never failed to put a small sad smile on your face. At least someone cared about you. You lied most of the time, too cowardly to tell her no you haven't been eating, you've been wearing the same clothes for the past four days and you don't have the strength to bathe. There were other things you couldn't tell her too. Like the fact your arms were littered with shallow cuts and last night you went too deep and panicked. You shake your head in silent defeat, the one thing you wanted was death and you were too much of a coward to kill yourself; but all that would change today.
You look up at your husktop and read her newest message; it brings tears to your eyes.
gG: Eridan, things might look glum right now, but it will get better! Don't give up, OK? Because there is still something worth fighting for!
Your heart is heavy and dark as you lie and tell her what she wants to hear. She reminds you so much of Fef. You look at the clock on the wall and sigh; it's nearing the hour of your demise and you need to get ready. You tell her you're expecting a guest and she tells you that's great; only it isn't. She tells you she'll message you tomorrow and you log off with moist eyes. She'll get over you, and no one else will care.
You sit at your desk, head in your hands. Regret is gnawing at your beat pump but it's too late to stop the domino effect that you so desperately put in motion. You shove back from your desk and stand. You're wobbly and weak from hunger but lately it just makes your stomach cramp painfully when you eat, so you quit eating. You take careful steps to your wardrobifier and open it. You want to be the one that dresses you in your funeral attire, not the machine. The mirror hanging on the inside of the door reflects back the image of a pitifully thin troll of nine sweeps. There are black circles under your purple eyes and your hair hangs in limp, greasy strands to your shoulders. Your cheeks are hollow, making your cheekbones protrude.
You avert your eyes from your image, self-loathing welling up inside your chest and leaving an acidic taste in your mouth. You start to strip, peeling the soiled clothing off and letting it fall to the ground unceremoniously. Your seeing orbs flicker back to the mirror and the image looking back at you is pathetic. Ribs and hips are clearly defined; you have no muscle mass like you did when you were a wriggler. Your bones jut out at sharp angles and the gills on your neck and sides look like royal purple gashes against your ashen skin. You finger the raised scar that runs 'round your abdomen; when they brought you back it was there and its never left. It's just another reminder of what you did to your friends and how you got what was coming to you.
You swallow thickly and reach into the clothing receptacle with trembling hands. You withdraw a plain black long-sleeved shirt with your symbol on it and weakly pull it over your head; no need for Sol to see your cuts. Next comes a comfortable pair of black jeans, there isn't any need for the striped ones; this affair isn't for fashion. You do decide to wear your scarf; you're cold often and today is no exception. You decide the cape is too much, and so are your rings so you leave them.
You carefully wobble to the hygeinblock, trying not to trip over your own feet. You pick up the comb on the sink and slick your hair back. The purple streak has grown out and is showing black roots but you can't find the energy to care. You take a long look at yourself. You're exhausted; worn down to the bone and your clothes sag off your frame. You don't know why the others brought you back; Fef wants nothing to do with you and the others could care less about you, Jade being the odd exception. The one consistency is that Sol still hates you, and not in a blackrom sort of way.
It's that hatred that you're relying on now. It was easy to push him over the edge, just say a few things that you didn't really mean and he's fuming. You shake your head in disgust; you can't off yourself so you have someone else do it for you. Pathetic. But it doesn't matter, just so long as he gets the job done. The world will be better off without you. You exit the hygeinblock, there's one last piece missing from your outfit. You start the laborious walk up the stairs, desperate to reach your respiteblock before your executioner arrives.
You grab a shitty wand from the pile and sigh. That was it, your set is complete. You have no intention of going into this duel with a real weapon. Your hive rumbles and a loud boom echoes off the walls, shaking photos off the walls and knickknacks off shelves. You hear glass splinter and then his lisping voice shout out an insult for you. He's here.
An old sneer forms on your lips as you march down the stairs, down to your doom. No matter how long it's been he still gets under your skin just as much as you get under his. He has blown a hole in your home, the wall and part of the floor reduced to rubble and he's levitating right at the edge of the opening. You can smell the charge in the air. No words are said and the next moment happens in slow-motion.
You snarl and raise your shitty wand and he reacts just like you wanted. An electric current hits your chest and runs through your body like lightning. You think you scream but you can't be sure. It hurts, it feels like every inch of you is on fire and your knees give out so you convulse on the floor. Your last thought is of Jade, then nothing.