Title: Selfish

Rating: R (Mainly for subject matter)

Character(s)/Pairing: Pickles, Charles

Warning: Mentions of drug, alcohol, and child abuse, cutting, and character death.

Disclaimer: I do not own Metalocalypse nor do I make any profit from anything here.

AN: For my sister who wanted an angsty Pickles story. She also wanted some Charles/Pickles, but there isn't really a set pairing in this one. More angst. Hope you like it, not sure if this is exactly what you wanted, but I enjoyed writing it.

xxx

Pickles took another gulp of his liquor of choice for the night. Then another and another. And when the bottle slipped from his grasp to fall to the ground empty, he picked up another bottle and took another gulp.

Rehab didn't work. It helped sober him for a while, but soon after he was right back to where he was before, if not worse. The pain was always worse when he was sober.

Alcohol was slowly being less and less effective. It took more and more each time to lessen the sting, to quell the pain he felt. Pickles needed something stronger, something that lasted longer than a few hours.

So Pickles turned to drugs. He smoked, snorted, and injected anything and everything. It didn't matter to him, as long as the pain went away for a time he was content.

But his body quickly built up a tolerance for the drugs, just as it always had. Each hit, each time he shot up he needed more and more. Blast all consequence, damn all re-repercussions. He needed to feel the numbness no matter how dangerous it was.

When the drugs were no longer enough, Pickles locked himself in his room and put a blade to his wrists. It wasn't the first time he watched his own blood bead before spilling over, and it wouldn't be the last.

Pickles could recall the first time he ever did something that harmed his body. He remembered it like it was yesterday. No matter how much crap he put into his body to try and forget he remembered the pain of his upbringing.

He could remember the betrayal he felt when his brother blamed him for starting the garage fire, but he also remembered the soothing burn in his throat and stomach from his first beer.

He remembered the floating, free feeling he felt after his first hit of weed, helping him forget the pain he felt when his own mother forgot his birthday, again, so she could take his brother to another amusement park without him.

Most of all he remembered the relief, the release, the soothing caress of the blade the first time he cut himself after his father laid a hand on him for the first time.

Now, sitting in his bathroom watching the cuts slowly stop bleeding, he felt the pain start to leave again. Pickles never cut deep enough to cause serious harm, just enough for the pain to ease.

Soon enough, though, shallow cuts weren't enough anymore and he started cutting deeper and deeper. He became sloppy and more desperate, forgetting to lock the bathroom door, or just lifting his wrist band to quickly cut himself during band practice when no one was looking.

Then one night he cut to deep. Blood poured freely from his abused wrists until his head felt lighter than air and he saw stars. He knew death was coming for him, but he wasn't scared. In fact he wanted it. He wanted to die, it was the only way for the pain to finally be all gone. He was happy he was bleeding out.

Sitting on the ground, back to the tub, arms bleeding on his lap, Pickles closed his eyes for what he hoped would be the last time.

But he opened them again, and there sitting next to his hospital bed was Charles. Pickles just listened, not saying a word or looking up, as Charles yelled at him. Asking what he thought he was going to accomplish, what he was thinking.

When Charles asked Pickles how he could be so selfish, Pickles finally looked up at his manger, noting his unkempt appearance and watering red-rimmed eyes and said, "How can you be so selfish to keep me alive?"

Charles choked back a sob as he watched Pickles lean forward and reach inside Charles' jacket for the gun he knew he always kept with him.

Pickles brought the gun out, feeling the weight in his hands. It felt heavy yet welcoming, like it was the answer to all his prayers. Which it was. It really was.

He raised the gun to his temple, green eyes meeting hazel as he smiled, a real smile, for the first time in a very long time knowing he wouldn't be hurting anymore.

The sound of a gun shot reverberated off the walls of Mordhaus. A second shot could be heard a few moments later.

xxx

Hoped you liked it sis. Thanks for beta-ing my multi-chapter story. *happyface*