Okay so I was watching the official lyric video for the song Bullet by Hollywood Undead and was like wow yeah this is like Grantaire...
I actually sent it to a couple friends and they agreed. So I decided why the fuck not. Okay hope this isn't too shitty/heartbreaking/awful for you.
No one noticed.
No one cared.
The scratches up his arm that ended before the thick vein in his wrist.
The even more abuse of alcohol.
No one noticed. And no one cared.
No one noticed that he was suicidal. He always seemed so happy. When can you tell a cynic is unhappy when a cynic is a cynic? Are they merely looking upon life with a doubtful mind, with a negative attitude? Or are they truly unhappy?
No one could tell. They merrily assumed, "That's how he always acts. Don't worry about it." Others worried more than others. Jehan had a soft spot for everyone. But even he didn't notice the signs.
The thin lines on his wrists. His liquor was drained more quickly. Bottles stacked up.
And Grantaire had a new place to hang out as well.
His rooftop. The rooftop of his apartment building was tall, looking down onto hard asphalt. It had never looked so inviting. He wondered. How would it feel to tip over the edge. To free fall. To hit the concrete. Who would cry? Who would care?
He might have done it, if he thought his lovely Apollo might cry. Enjolras was like stone, however. He would not cry over Grantaire's death. He was only a bothersome drunkard. His suicide would cause him joy...
He did not jump. Though his Apollo would be unhappy, he wanted to see that beautiful soul rise above. To conquer all. To do great things. He knew Enjolras could.
His feet dangled off the edge. At his side was his trusty bottle. The other side, his weapons.
A knife. A bottle of pills he had snatched from Joly. And a gun.
They were his best friends. They would assist him in the ending of his useless being.
Taking a swig of the alcohol in his green bottle, he contemplated his options.
Which would be quicker?
Which would hurt less?
Which would cause the least amount of mess?
He couldn't quite decide.
Picking up the knife, he studied the sharpened blade that glinted in the moonlight.
It felt cool against his skin, cutting into rough flesh and opening another wound. Crimson blood spilled, warm and alive. He felt alive. It was like light was seeping into the dark. Relief flooded him. It felt good, to cut. He loved it. It was why he did it. He got so much relief.
Behind him, the roof door opened. Out spilled his friends, laughing and drinking and singing. Enjolras was at the front, sober of course.
"Grantaire, we are heading out to go to-"
"Grantaire what did you do to your arm?"
Jehan had spoken. His eyes wide like disks, big and blue and worried. Everyone looked at his arm. They had caught him in the act.
The poet's eyes filled with tears, making him sniffle.
Everyone casted worried and tearful glances at Grantaire.
Even Enjolras. He was the first to speak after Jehan.
"Is it really all so bad? To resort to this, Grantaire? What have we done, what have we lacked, in friendship? We never noticed that you were hurting. But you said nothing! All those days you let me say bad things without even a flinch, you said nothing-"
"This is not your fault, Enjolras." Grantaire said quietly. "It could never be your fault. I love you and you plainly do not reciprocate. But it's alright. Doing this makes me feel a lot better."
But they had already spotted the gun.
"Don't do it! We need you!" Wailed Jehan, sobbing into his hands.
"No you do-"
"We do." Enjolras said quietly. "Though you may drink excessively, you are a valued member. At your sober stage, you have a brilliant mind, Grantaire. You just need to stop squandering it."
Grantaire looked at his friends.
They looked at his scars.
Everyone noticed.
Everyone cared.
