TRIGGER WARNING

I repeat: Possible Trigger Warning. Please do not read if you are sensitive to suicide.

I do not in any way condone the taking of life, so know that this story has a Trigger Warning.

Effort

Words: 444

I just...I had a really really bad day and my parents weren't helping and I needed to write this. I know it's not like my usual stuff, not as good either. This has had no editing and I just wrote what came next.

Disclaimer: I DO NOT OWN


Before.

Before it was easy to work through and with emotion.

I had always been level headed, emotionally stable. I was generally in a state of contentment.

Emotion never got in the way of my thinking and I never felt this terrible weight pressing down on chest, making it almost impossible to funtion.

Now.

The weight is there constantly. I see the pile of work and problems layed out on the table in front of me. I try to work, I do. I put on my glasses, make myself a cup of tea, pick up my pencil and prepare to work out whatever is thrown at me.

The first problem, words scribbled in a sideways hand I recognize as the head nurse. It's not something impossible for me, with some effort and it should be a fairly quick problem.

I look down at it, re-reading, not quit comprehending what it says through the weight in my chest and the oncoming headache.

The thought that it would take even more work, even more effort seemed to pressed down on my chest in addition to the almost crippling pressure that already held me down in so many other aspects of my current life.

I put my head down on the words that quickly became meaningless symboles as my eyes misted over and leaked.

My dispare and hoplessness ran down my cheek and onto the ink adorning the page; rendering it unreadable, now useless.

A lot like me.

When had this brought me down, turning me into someone who cried at every hardship?

It wasn't the new hardships, I realized through pressure behind my eyes, it was the effort that the new problems brought in addition to the thing that was weighing me, my life, my entire being down.

Living was the main problem now. The thing that took the most effort.

I was done with it.

I was done with all of it.

Done with crying. Done with pity. Done with working.

I was done with life.

I sat up, a new purpose filling me, if only for the briefest of moments.

I found my gun, the cool, familier weight in my hand.

Only this weight was comforting, it promised release. And end, oh finally and end to all the effort that living was.

I didn't want to deal with it anymore.

So I wasn't going to too.

With hands still and unmoving as glass I lifted the weapon to my head.

My last though, as I closed my eyes, went to the one man I had cared about most in my life.

I'll see you soon.

It took barely any effort at all to pull the trigger.


Yeah, this story doesn't fit my head canon at all. It is not what I believe John would do, in fact it's so far from it that I don't even know why I wrote it. But yeah.

Let me know what you thought?

Thanks for reading.

-JC