Jeremy has had fucking enough.

"This is the worst day ever!"

Jeremy pondered over the statement. It was usually something cliché uttered in the conflict of a teen drama, from a bitchy, whiny girl whose life turned into shambles after accused of pushing someone in front of a bus. (Mean Girls reference. Rich had forced him to watch too many teen chick flicks with him in the two's free time.)

What made life so unfair? What did you have to live through to declare these words and actually get taken seriously for saying them and not getting accused to be the protagonist of a cliché high school movie?

He always imagined the day his mother moved away would have to be the worst of his own life. The way her voice shook tearfully while men moved her things into the moving van, the way she'd told him that it was for the best that his parents split up… his mother taught him so much; to love art, to care for other people, to find his worth in creativity rather than achievement, and to stay strong when things were tough.

Staying positive wasn't one of Jeremy's stronger qualities. He tended to add things up and focus on them until they became too much for him to handle. Standing too close to the picture to see it correctly; the lines of good and bad, fair and unjust, right and wrong… Each portion of his life blurred together into some obscure horror. Right now things were too much. Or worse yet, too little.

He tore the black apron off, bundled it up, and threw it in the dumpster beside the building. His job at the coffee shop wasn't much but it was all he had sometimes. Jeremy would miss it, just as much as he missed his youth, his boyfriend, and the number of friends he'd fucked things up with along the way. What was wrong with him? Everything that mattered was slipping through his fingers and he couldn't get any of it back. He didn't have anything left. Not a single goddamn thing.

He tried to remove the thought from his head. Of course he did. He had Rich. He had his art. He had a roof over his head, food on the table, and air in his lungs. He ran dry fingers through curly hair, wishing it was enough.

Walking home, he cursed under his breath. "Forgot to take my medicine, dammit."

He always forgot. His boyfriend used to remind him but he wasn't around anymore. He couldn't resent him for leaving even when he tried. Jeremy would have done the same. After all, he was lucky he put up with his shit for as long as he did.

The months had passed by in a haze. He felt as though he was losing himself along with the rest of it. Like he'd woken up to see someone he wasn't in the mirror. Someone with breakouts all over their face, bags under their eyes, and greasy hair that stood up at all angles.

He kicked a rock and watched it skip across the pavement as he tried to find solutions. He considered looking for another job, a new relationship… The hurtful truth was that he didn't want to start over. Why create a new life just to mess it up again? He couldn't go back and he couldn't move forward. Trapped in the middle of something he didn't ask for. He was the only thing messing everything up in all of this.

The New Jersey air smelled like cut grass and engine exhaust that day. Autumn had begun to set in early this year. The leaves were still green and full of life but they would only remain another month at the most. He'd lived here all his life; he knew the seasonal patterns well.

The sun was setting. It was dusk. The Autumn atmosphere felt breezy on his exposed skin.

His phone buzzed in his front pocket as he turned the lock to his apartment. He threw his keys and jacket on the floor, and pushed the door shut behind him. The hollow sound of the lock latching echoed through the cluttered living room. Leaning against the frame, he read the text from Rich.

Today 6:52 PM

how was work??

got fired.

oh shit

r u ok?

it's fine. it's my own goddamn fault.

want me 2 come over?

not tonight. i'm fine rich.

He wasn't fine; far from it, actually. He couldn't think straight or breathe enough to fill his lungs. He felt so alone and lost. It burned deep inside of him. This shouldn't have bothered him so much but he couldn't seem to bear the weight of life resting atop his aching shoulders. He didn't know what he was living for. He wasn't sure he ever did.

Jeremy went into the kitchen and opened the half empty bottle of vodka from the cabinet above the fridge and took a long draw of it. It was bitter at the back of his throat but oh-so-good. He shuddered and capped the bottle only to resign himself to opening it again and taking another swig. He didn't put the bottle down but carried it with him to the bathroom. The thick stench of the strong substance burned in his nose.

He barely knew his own face in the mirror. He looked so much older than he had in the past summer. His eyes were dark and bloodshot from weeks of fitful slumber and unrest. His nights spent sitting up watching Adult Swim and drinking hard liquor until dawn showed now. He was paler than usual too, which was admittedly saying something.

"You look like a fucking Apocalypse of the Damned zombie," he said to Mirror Jeremy. Another time he might have laughed but not tonight.

He was sixteen the first time he thought of it. He always talked himself out of it, always found a way around it, always found a reason. But he was just so desperate now. He didn't want to screw things up anymore. He was alone and it was all his fault. He'd done every bit of this to himself, like a pathetic Icarus of the modern day.

He couldn't hate himself if he was dead, he thought as he grasped the bottle of Xanax. Nobody would be here to stop him. He could leave this world. The universe would be better off without him anyway.

Tears raced down his cheeks. He was scared but not scared enough to change his mind. He took a deep breath and slid down onto the floor. The bathroom tile was cool, almost welcoming. He leaned his head against the wall as he eased the orange bottle open. He started one at a time, pill after pill after pill, and finally poured the rest into his hand, washing them back in one mouthful with the reeking vodka.

This was the end of him. He closed his eyes and felt the drugs wash through him. Slowly he faded into darkness; like he'd stepped into a thick fog. There was just pain, pain, pain racking through his stomach and bleeding into the rest of his body. He felt the need to vomit; felt it coming up his throat but refused to let it. He wouldn't let this sorry body keep him alive. He couldn't force enough air into his chest and stopped trying. It would all stop soon, he said to himself. The void of an eternal sleep would come and he could finally get some goddamn rest.

He thought of Rich. His best friend. His practical brother. The only one who ever stayed. He should have apologized to him. He should have said he was sorry to be the one to leave.

His world went cold and Rich was there when it did. He was too far gone to see but he felt him there. It wasn't real. It couldn't have been real. There was a scream and talking a moment later but every other word was lost. He'd heard his friend scream many times, but never like that.

So many faint sensations came; the hollow sound of the glass bottle falling against the tile, Rich cursing and oh god , crying.

Sentences, scattered and faded. "Please…friend… think… overdose… ambulance… begging…"

One string of words was clear as his friend's arms wrapped around his chest, pulled him close. He felt Rich's hands in his hair, his breath against his forehead. So far away yet so near.

"Come on, stay strong Jeremy! Help's on the way… I... I love you..."

He was already gone, right? Rich would be okay. Rich was stronger than Jeremy was. Rich had always been stronger than him. Rich would be better off alone, not left with the burden of having a depressed friend.

Maybe the worst day of his life would be the day he died.