Ianto Jones was dead. Jack had been the one who had killed him. No matter what others say, he was the one to provoke the 4-5-6 into releasing a toxin into the air. He, Captain Jack Harkness, had killed Ianto Jones. He repeated this over and over in his head as he drank whatever he could find. He tried to forget, but Ianto dying in his arms was not a memory that would ever fade.
Jack kept going through his daily motions, talking to Gwen, but he could see the pain in her eyes and the blame. She had to have blamed him for getting her into such a dangerous job. She had seen every member of Torchwood die except Jack, who couldn't die. Now she was pregnant. Pregnant with a child and Jack knew that he couldn't be trusted around them. Hell, he killed his own grandson.
Jack went over to the armory and found a sharp blade. It was times like this when he knew that he had lived too long and wished for a release from the horrors of this world, even if there was nothing in death. It didn't matter, he just didn't want to feel any longer.
Slowly, he brought the blade to his throat and pressed down. It stung, but he had shot himself in a traveling circus, it didn't hurt that much. He felt dizzy and soon passed out from blood loss. He felt cold. He died, for a moment. He reveled in that moment, but it was too quick. All too soon he woke again, an angry scar on his throat that was quickly fading. He screamed in frustration.
His life was filled with moments like these. All of these mortals, how he wished that he could be one of them.
He just wanted to die. He lived too long, far too long, yet he never died. He lived, just barely. Sure, he continued to have adventures, but every time a friend or lover died either naturally or not, he would try to follow them. Every time, he woke. Every time he felt his heart close just a bit more. Because, in the end, he knew it was his fault, no matter what anyone ever said.
His life, was one long suicide, full of pain without any release.