It's cheaper to feel guilty. And you do. It chokes you up, seizes your muscles, burns you from the inside. It takes away your stubborn pride, melts away your fierce loyalty; it destroys you by crippling you, eating you alive. Every single part of you aches with longing, with the guilt, with loneliness.
Where she was your constant companion, the aches have replaced her and they do not relent. But you do not wish them to. You deserve this. Every imperfect second of agony is entirely yours and yours alone to bear. You do so in silence, in recluse.
The booze was never meant to be a solution. It was only supposed to be a temporary crutch, but you find yourself seeking the numbing relief time and time again. You forget to shower. You show up to work wearing yesterday's wrinkled clothes and tangled, bed head hair. The circles under your eyes have only intensified during the time that's passed.
It was never supposed to be like this.
It is all your fault. After weeks, no one's tried to prove you wrong any more, because you aren't. It's all on you. If you hadn't been there, if you had just listened, she would still be here. She'd still be alive and breathing and beautiful.
It should've been you. At first, no one would agree with you, but as time wore on, as your persistence won out, they acknowledged you were right. You are right. Everyone knows that you're to blame.
Don't forgive me, please forget me, you whisper to the mounting shadows. Bring her back, take me instead, please! That's the way it's supposed to be! You took the wrong one, please take me instead. Please! You sob and you shake, dissolving in the quake of your destruction.
You offer yourself up, sitting pretty on a silver platter. You're an easy target when you're sprawled across the bathroom floor, tears streaking down your skin.
When there's a loaded gun in your trembling hands.
You know it's weak, but you've always been weak, so why stop a lifetime of underachievement now?
Because you're on the precipice?
No. That's a terrible reason. She wouldn't approve of that reason.
You're not even on the edge anymore; it's far too late. You're already free-falling to the rumbling waves and jagged rocks below.
Just one flick of your finger, one last, gentle squeeze, and you don't have to hurt anymore.
Maybe you can see her again. Apologise, beg for her undeserved forgiveness, sob at her feet in remorse.
She can hate you; you deserve it. No one could deserve it more than you.
She can kill you all over again, every single day for the rest of forever, just so long as you can see her once more.
As long as she's okay, wherever she is.
You just need to know that she's okay. Everything else you'll be able to handle.
There's only one way to find out.
The muzzle of the gun isn't cold against your temple. The warmth from your hands have made something unfriendly almost pleasant; inviting.
You half-smile.
It's almost time. Almost time for you to spend your afterlife protecting her like you should have during this one.
A life of sin, an after of repentance.
You briefly consider moving from the bathroom for whomever has the unfortunate luck to discover your body. But no, the bathroom will be the easiest room to clean, the best way to erase your presence in this world completely.
You take one last look at the photograph in your lap. There's a brunette and a golden-blonde smiling up at you from the glossy sheen. The two of you look happier than kids in a candy store, with your arms wrapped around each other.
You can feel fingers on your shoulders, a fleeting graze across your bare skin. A voice, soft as a whisper, caresses your ear.
"It's okay. You can let go. It doesn't hurt."
You love that voice. You cherish the owner of that voice. You trust it, more than anything else in your life.
It makes you feel safe.
So you listen and your eyes close. You can see her before you, beckoning you to her.
Your fingers no longer tremble.
You smile.
Your ears shatter with the explosion, but you don't panic.
Everything goes dark.