CHAPTER TRIGGER WARNING: SELF HARM, SELF LOATHING, GRAPHIC SUICIDE ATTEMPT, ETC
Chapter Two: The Letter
He pulled a sealed envelope from the brown box that had held the pill bottle and set it on the desk. It was a plain, white envelope, with 'Mr. Stark' neatly printed on the front in pencil. Inside was a handwritten letter to the billionaire.
"Dear Mr. Stark,
I don't really know what to say. How does someone go about writing a suicide note? I don't know. I'm sorry. I'm sorry I wasn't strong enough. Good enough. I'm sorry for being so fucked up. I'm sorry you had to del with me. I'm sorry for bothering you. I'm sorry for everything. It's all just apologies, isn't it? Sorry after sorry after sorry. I guess when you're a fuck-up, you have a lot of things to be sorry about.
Thank you so much for everything. Honestly, you have no idea how much you meant to me. The only good memories I have of the past two years are being Spider-man and helping you. I can explain about that later. But, seriously, thank you. I cannot express how fucking grateful I am.
You're probably wondering why I finally decided to kill myself. I don't even know where to start on that. I guess it all started when my Uncle Ben was killed when I was 13, in 8th grade. That's when I first started feeling depressed. I brushed it off as nothing important. No one needed to know, so I didn't tell anyone.
My freshman year of high school was the worst. All of a sudden, my depression got 1000 times worse. I developed crippling social anxiety and panic disorder. I started cutting. At first, it was a small cut every now and then. Soon, it was slicing up my wrist multiple times a day. I started experiencing suicide thoughts for the first time. Not enough to act on them, but they were there. Mild suicidal ideation, they call it. Freshman year is also when I started getting bullied relentlessly by Flash. He would make me feel like shit, then beat me up. Every. Single. Fucking. Day. And of course, when I got my powers inn about November of that year, and Flash realized that I didn't bruise (they actually just healed really quickly), it was so much worse.
And now this year. Every day, I slice my wrist up, trying to get rid of the pain. Trying to feel something other than this fucking numbness. I barely feel real anymore. Every day, I have panic attacks in the school bathroom. In my room at night. Every day, I wake up wishing I didn't. I didn't ask for this, Mr. Stark. I didn't want this. Why can't I just be normal? Is that too much to ask?
I'm sorry, Mr. Stark. I'm so sorry. I don't want to go, Mr. Stark. I just want to get better. But I know it can't get better. This is the only way. So don't mourn. Don't cry. Don't pity me. I don't deserve it.
- Peter"
Peter sat down on the edge of his bed, water and pill bottle in hand. He shook out a handful of pills and quickly swallowed them. A second, then a third, then a fourth handful of pills followed the first. Peter's hands were shaking uncontrollably. The pill bottle fell to the floor, the few remaining pills spilling out. The open bottle of water tipped, wetting the soft blue quilt.
Still shaking terribly, Peter fished his blade out of his pocket. He pulled up his sleeves and viciously slashed at his already mutilated left wrist. He hissed as the blade sliced open his skin, far deeper than he had ever cut before. The blood poured out of the open gash. Quickly, his right wrist, which he had never even scratched before, received the same brutal treatment as the left. Both wrists now poured blood all over the bed, the floor, and Peter himself. Peter felt himself growing light-headed and dizzy, the combination of his overdose and the blood loss.
He tried to stand, but collapsed onto the hard wooden floor. His breathing grew extremely heavy and labored, more like panting. Sweat covered his face, which was contorted in agony. "Mr. Stark," he gasped, "I'm sorry."
Peter groaned. The pain was absolutely unbearable. There were no words to express it. He was so hot. Sweat dripped off his heaving brow. He curled into a small ball on the floor, rocking back and forth from the pain. Against his will, a scream of agony burst from Peter's lips. Tears streamed down his cheeks, mixing with the sweat and blood on the floor. "I'm sorry," he whispered one last time. "I'm sorry."
Peter's phone rang. The screen lit up with the name and contact photo of one Tony Stark. The phone went unanswered, however. No one was there to answer it.
A/N:
IMPORTANT TRIGGER WARNING NOTICE:
This fic will have potentially triggering content, dealing with self-harm, depression, anxiety, suicidal idealization, etc. PLEASE DO NOT READ THIS FIC IF IT MIGHT BE TRIGGERING FOR YOU. Seriously, your mental health and general well-being are so much more important than a stupid fic. Stay safe. Stay alive, frens.