Where The Road Ends – Chapter 3.

TRIGGER WARNING: Description of suicide. Please do not read if this might upset you! You can skip to the next chapter instead.

Samaritan Helpline: 116 123 (look after yourselves guys) 3

I never thought I would use them, these pills. I had them just in case. In case of what exactly? I don't know. I got them for insomnia, but I didn't really use them. What use is a pill to help you sleep when you can barely stay conscious anyway?

I still have most of the container. I open the lid and peer at the pills, their small pale faces looking up at me gently, inviting.

It's almost too easy. I bring the tub back to the sofa, which sinks under my weight as if happy to have me back. I have alcohol somewhere. I don't know how people usually do this, but alcohol doesn't usually mix well with pills, so it should do the trick.

I rouse myself again, the energy of finally having made my choice giving me a new spring that I haven't felt for months, for years. My body still aches, still screams at me to lie down, but I stumble to the kitchen regardless. Which cupboard? Not in the one next to the sink. Not in the one by the humming fridge. How long has it been since I looked for anything in here? I don't even know my own flat anymore. Another sign that I've overstayed my welcome here.

Finally, I spot it, a three-quarter bottle of cheap supermarket vodka, left by Feli after some house party he went to. It's so old now that the lid has started to rust a little with the permeating damp in the flat. Alcohol doesn't go off, does it? It doesn't matter anyway; it'll do just fine.

I pull it carefully off the shelf, and I feel my stomach knot at the idea of drinking it. Even after so long, the taste of pure spirit still lingers in my memory from long ago parties and dares.

But this isn't supposed to be enjoyable, it just needs to work.

My legs have started to feel heavy again, my body sagging with gravity, so I return to the sofa and slump onto it, vodka in hand.

Maybe I should've brought a glass too. A glass would be more dignified.

This makes me smile a little. Is any of this dignified? What a joke.

I sit for a few moments and stare out of the window. I don't know what time it is. I don't even know what day it is. Just as well, really; an unmemorable day for an unmemorable end to an existence that was, in all honesty, unmemorable.

It seems fitting.

I summon the energy to lift my numb fingers and twist the cap. It's stiff, and the resistance pulls at something in the back of my mind, but I twist harder and eventually it relents, crunching a little as the rusty metal leaves the glass. The smell hits me hard and I try not to gag, and again, my mind sparks just a little, something gently trying to tell me something.

But I don't know what it is, and the frustration of this makes the job easier. I hold my breath and take a swig, adding a couple of pills to my mouth before swallowing hard. It burns as it goes down, and I have to fight a rising wave of nausea as it hits my empty stomach, violently sloshing about, making itself known to my insides.

But I've started, and for once, I'm not going to quit.

So I do it again.

And again.

And again.

It's getting easier every time, and I'm surprised when no more pills fall into my hand from the container. That was almost too easy. It feels like there should've been more. More effort. More pain. More anything.

But now I'm left sitting here, the same as before, and that niggling feeling hasn't left.

My stomach begins to churn violently. It takes every effort to hold it down, to not ruin the work I just did. Slowly, I feel my mind becoming woozy. It's not unpleasant, just unfamiliar, and somehow the fuzz in my brain becomes lighter, like mist rather than fog. So much lighter to bear, I sigh at the relief of it all.

With the lifting of the fuzz and the nothingness, snippets of memory start to appear, though they're segmented and random, as if someone has cut them up with scissors.

I can see young Feliciano running towards me, laughing happily. I'm laughing too. What was it we found funny again? And then Antonio appears behind him. Older than us but still so young, chasing us, his sweet laugh tinkling in my ears. Then it fades into nothing, as if someone has pressed the eject button on a DVD.

My face feels wet suddenly.

I'm crying. I didn't even notice.

Why did I start crying? I try to bring a hand to my face, but I can't seem to lift it. A mild panic starts to rise in me, but I can't focus properly on why, or what to do. It's the natural reaction of my flesh, the part desperately trying to survive whilst the control centre has given up completely. I feel my breathing slow, impossibly long breaths, my chest heavy.

What was I worried about again?

Another memory interrupts me, and I see grandpa holding Feliciano on his lap, the two of them painting together. Why was I watching them? I was always watching them. Never really involved, never really there at all. What was the point of me?

Another blank, then a vague memory of a party, Antonio in front of me, pulling me, telling me to dance, then giving up and joining the crowd of sweaty bodies, pulling Feliciano close and laughing. Why didn't I dance? Why did he give up on me so easily? I didn't want him to give up. I needed him to not give up! Just a little more, just a bit

Nothing.

Antonio sat under a tree, playing guitar. There's no sound but I love that song. He looks so nice.

Nothing again.

A school play, Feli on stage. I wasn't given a role.

Antonio turning away.

Walking.

Don't leave me.

Please

A noise pulls me back, almost to consciousness, but I can't open my eyes. It sounds like a phone vibrating far away, the music too quiet to hear. Not my phone.

Then thumping.

Who?

The door.

Shouts.

And then it's gone.