A/N: Shit Happens
It was hell.
It had only been twelve hours since he had seen the love of his life, and nine since he had gotten out of the hospital, four since he had last tried calling the love of his life, and it was already hell. Hell beyond words, and when he tried to describe it to himself, it would only get worse each time, and he would scream out into his sheets while the alcohol bottle in his hand would either be crushed, or dropped, spilling the foul tasting liquid onto the ground beside his bed, drenching his hard-wood floor and making it sticky and wet.
Twelve hours, and it was the worse kind of hell he had ever experienced. It was like a dull knife staking through his body and cutting its way down, tearing the skin apart until it was too sore for him to bear.
Twelve hours of constant motion around him. Twelve hours of constant reminder of what had happened. And most of all, twelve long, grueling hours that he wasn't there. It had been twelve hours ago since he had seen him, and he just couldn't take being all alone without him. It hurt to think about it.
The hours moved by slowly, making him sit in constant frustration and misery about everything that had happened. It made him sit and recap everything that had went down. Everything that had gone wrong. And the only way that he could make all of the pain go away was to cloud his mind with the sickening taste of alcohol; to drain the bottle bit by bit until the only liquid left in it was sticking to the sides, and he couldn't reach it. And then, when his body couldn't handle the strong drink anymore, he would sway back and forth, shifting his body to his window before letting it all out, upchucking the alcohol, some stomach acid, and the little food that he had been forced to consume when everyone was here to celebrate that he was alive. The sour, stale liquid burned up through his throat, and he would grab at it as he was letting everything out, tears streaming down his face as he watched the gross puke travel down the side of his house, out onto his lawn. And it would burn, making him want to rip out his throat, as it cried out for water, but he wouldn't give into it; he wouldn't give it the satisfaction of a 'cool-down'. He refused to let his body win, when he wanted to rid himself of the pain.
And he would sit there, tipping the bottle back, holding tightly to the neck of it, gulping down the cold liquid that burned his sore, sore throat. He would hold it so tightly in his hand, almost breaking it, but not until he had drank it all. He didn't want to waste any of the precious drink. The precious liquid that helped him to forget, or at least numb the pain that he was feeling inside of his heart and deep down into the pits of his whole being.
Hours.
Twelve long, hasty hours that were nearly killing him. What was he to do now that he was out of the hospital? What was he supposed to do now that he knew no one would look at him the same? But he made sure that he didn't fall asleep. He made damn well sure, because if he did fall asleep...then...then he would have to face reality. Face the truth of what he had done. The reality of what people were going to think of him now.
He had faced reality once, and look where it had taken him. He had only tried just a day or two ago, he couldn't remember fully. But when he had tried to face it, it had just thrown him down notches on the scale of popularity. Not just knocked down, but had literally ripped him apart, and now, what was he to do? Nothing? Was he to sit there and take it? No...he wouldn't. He refused to be beaten down any farther.
He tipped the bottle back, but it was now emptied. Just another one, though, in the stock pile of bottles strewn across the floor, no cares in the world. He gritted his teeth, tossing it haphazardly against the wood of his door. He listened to it shatter, and try as he might, he could barely make out the rest of the liquid dripping down the floor. The glass was amongst the pile of other shattered glass, and all he could think of was how it resembled his heart. Shattered, broken, and nobody in the world cared. Nobody but him.
The moments passed in slowness, and he turned his head, nearly falling off of his bed as he tried grabbing for another bottle that he had stolen from his fathers liquor cabinet. Funny thing was, his father wouldn't notice, for he'd be too drunk over the fact that his son tried to kill himself because he was a homosexual. And not just because he had attempted suicide, but the fact that he was going to have to deal with shit from his family that his only son was gay.
That hurt, though. That hurt him a lot, and he just didn't want to deal with that anymore. He needed to talk about it, not drink it away. He needed to get out of here, find a loving place that would accept him for who he was. Find a place where he could be himself, and where he would never be judged, because everyone respected that everyone is different from themselves.
He looked over to his phone, though it was blurred by his vision. He reached out for it, picking it up a few times and dropping before successfully bringing it up to his sight, where he could slightly make out what he was looking at. He clicked the lock button, and waited a moment before the screen lite up. It gave him a headache, and he glared away from the screen. But he knew that he had to look to do what he wanted to do. To do what he needed to do. He punched in his pin, and waited a moment before clicking onto his contacts. He needed to hear his voice. He needed to know that someone was there, when everyone else wasn't.
He scrolled down through his contacts, accidentally clicking on ones when he was trying to just scroll down to 'K'. It took him a while, considering that he could barely see the screen, and that his hands were shaking far too much for his liking.
And then it was there. He had gotten to the name that lite up his very being, and he clicked on it. When the 'call' option showed up, he immediately hit it, and drew it up to his ear. The ringing was slow and deliberate, and he waited forever, trying to force his love to pick up the phone. But the ringing turned into a voice. A voice that wasn't what he wanted to hear. A voice that was absent. And it stabbed him even deeper.
"FUCK IT!" He screamed, tossing his phone at his door. He listened to the sound of it break, but he growled and didn't care.
He stood up from his bed, immediately falling down and hitting the floor. But he grabbed onto his sheets, and stood back up slowly, willing himself to be strong enough to walk onward. He walked slowly to his door, stepping on the glass that was still there. He could feel it cutting into his foot, ripping at his muscles and tendons, and he swore to God that it was all going to be okay. That everything was going to end up fine.
That he wouldn't disappoint anyone ever again.
As he opened the door, he stepped again, feeling the glass scratch and make him bleed through his socks. He could already feel them, soaked and warm and sticky. But everything was going to be okay. He promised that everything would end up okay.
He maneuvered himself down his steps, listening to the sound of the glass crunching and breaking into his feet. He grunted in pain and gripped hard to the railing of his stairs. The steps weren't many, but it hurt so much as he finally managed to get to the bottom of the steps. He looked around his house. No one was there. No one would every truly be there. No one ever was anyways. And he didn't have to deal with that loneliness again.
He walked to a darkened room that had trophies and many different other collectibles. There was a desk and a chair, along with a computer. His fathers workroom. And he had one reason for being there. One reason, and only one reason.
He smiled; that was all he could do, as he walked around the desk and opened the top drawer. His father was an idiot, not locking the drawer. The cool metal felt good on his fingers, and he felt a slow, burning sensation fall from his eye and down his cheek. He stopped smiling, realizing that this was it. That this was the last thing that he would be remembered for.
For being a coward.
A weakling.
And most of all,
A Failure.
He cold feel his temple rush cold, and in one moment it was over. The loud bang, and the sound of the trigger pulled back and clicking back onto the rest of the gun. A loud thump sounded afterward, and the blood that flowed out from the other side of his temple stained onto his fathers carpet.
And it was over. And everything was fine.
Because he would never disappoint anyone else, ever again.