A/N: I just wanted to know what would have happened if he really committed suicide. Another Nick-centric angst piece. Please review. And a pre-emptive apology if it's bad. I don't own the show, but I do own all mistakes.
Darkness. It enveloped him, cushioning him from the garish light, protecting him. And then, suddenly, feelings began to assault him. His nerves awoke and began to inform him of all the pain he was feeling, all the things that were going on around him. He tried to move his hands, to do something to assure himself he was safe. He could not. His hands began to sting as the taut, flaxen fibers began to work against his flesh. He released an annoyed breath. Something suddenly assailed him. He struggled against the rough hand that crudely clamped itself over his face. Forced to breathe, the chemical began to take hold of him again. He tried to scream. A breeze scattered the dry grains. We can hear you, but we can't do anything. The branches and boughs of trees swayed gently with the wind, almost as if they were grieving for his fate.
When he was forced into wakefulness by the oppressive heat, the bleakness assaulted him. The air seemed to slowly suffocate him. The dark seemed to trick him. It was a mirage within a mirage, and he was lost. Sit up. Find the light. His brain was prioritizing at the moment. He began to execute a motion to sit up. Find the light. He was obeying his mind. With a dull thud, his skull collided painfully with Plexiglas. He released another breath. The panic hadn't set in yet. What the hell?
And then, all at once, the thoughts began to seep through his fine mind filters. Don't panic. He couldn't avoid it. The scenarios began to pervade his mind. How much air did he have? Would he die of thirst? And would he constantly be exposed to the harsh darkness? It had been so warm and welcoming. Now it seemed intimidating and frightening, and all he wanted to do was leave. He would give up everything he had. He just wanted to escape. Maybe there's a way to get out. His rational side began to argue with him, but his hands began to grope the walls of the box. His rational side laughed. You're never going to get out. You're going to die. You're going to die in this little box, struggling for air, or water. And you'll never see your friends again. Where this monster had emerged from, he knew not. And with a scream, he hoped the monster's predictions rang false.
He panted in the confined box. What was going to happen to him? Would he be able to survive? He had to. He just had to survive. He couldn't leave without saying goodbye to all those he loved. As the heat began to prickle at his skin lightly, he at least was thankful for the fan. With a dying whir, the fan stopped, and the light, almost like a flashbulb, cut into his eye. He recoiled harshly, and his breaths were ragged. What the hell is going on here?
The light was torturing him. He was convinced. It kept teasing him. Once the light flickered off, the fan allowed him a few minutes of reviving air, and then, it would return. The light, so harsh, bathed him in excessive warmth, which he hardly needed. He was going to go insane. And then, the light teased him again. It was almost like delayed flickering. It would flash on, die, and then flash on again. Inspiration seized him. He awkwardly reached for a piece of bubble gum, and hurriedly threw it in his mouth. He chewed languidly, as if his jaw had forgotten the motions. He pulled it from his mouth and crudely shoved it in his ear. He reached for the gun, and quickly took aim.
A loud crack broke his accustomed silence. The only noise had been his breathing and his occasional voiced thoughts. The light shattered, and the fan began to whir happily again. He breathed a sigh of relief as the cool air began to caress his heated skin. Seizing a glow stick, he activated it, and enjoyed the dim light. He took a breath and relished the silence and the peace.
A crack disturbed him. His eyes darted, searching for the source of the sound. Another crack followed. He found a minute crack in the Plexiglas. Another one followed. And he followed it with his eyes with almost morbid curiosity. His residence was splintering around him. Literally.
Biting. Pain. And darkness. He was both thankful and regretful at his former action. If he hadn't done it, he would see whom—what—it was that was biting him, but if he hadn't had done it, he would have been saved from the hellish creatures that were now feasting on him. Even if it was only for a few minutes. What was he supposed to find solace in now? Every last threshold he had been accustomed to was gone, away from his reach.
You could end it all right now. He pondered the circumstances and the situation. He could end it all, escape from the biting pain right now. What if his friends were searching for him? He was an employee at the second-best lab in the country. Why wouldn't they search for him? Just because they've searched for you doesn't mean you'll get found. You're buried underground, Poncho. His mind seemed to be taunting him too.
He shut his eyes and mentally began to say his goodbyes to people. His mother, his father…what would they think of him? When he was younger, he had found the prospect of suicide disgusting. Yet now, considering the circumstances, surely he would be allowed this action. He needed release, solace, from the pain that seemed unrelenting. They were crawling all over him, covering him. There was no place that was safe. He was being bitten everywhere. They would understand. He reached for the revolver again, and twinges of pain shot through his arm. He was moving and they were still biting. It felt as if they were clinging to his arm with their teeth.
He cocked the gun and held the muzzle taut against his skin. No pain. Just a second, and all would fade away. I'm sorry. I love you all. A crack rang out in the otherwise silent prison.