Chapter Summary: This is only a teaser chapter for a sequel that I would really, really like to write.

Warning: self-harm and attempted suicide.

X

What were people supposed to think about as they were dying?

Evan Williams wished that he knew the answer. According to Buddhism, he was supposed to observe his thoughts with the serenity of a detached onlooker. But he didn't feel particularly serene. He worried over the smell of the hoagie wrapper wafting from his wastebasket, wondered if he should have hung his clothes in his closet as opposed to folding them, and tried to repress his irritation at the banter of the trash collectors moving around below his window. There was a part of him that wanted to lean out of the window and scream in his best New York accent, "hey, I'm dyin' here!" Shut them the fuck up, yank that obnoxious laughter right out of their throats.

2:15 pm.

He dropped his phone onto his chest and sighed as he laced his fingers above his belly. There was no use in reading the labels on the Vicodin and Tylenol bottles littering his bed sheets. He had already memorized the ingredients and warning messages.

In case of an overdose, get medical help or contact a Poison Control Center right away. (1-800-555-1555) Quick medical attention is critical for adults as well as children even if you do not notice any signs or symptoms. Store between twenty and twenty-five degrees celsius (sixty-eight to seventy degrees Fahrenheit.) Keep away from children, blah blah blah.

It wasn't too late for him to call the Poison Control Center or call 911 or call a stranger and offer to let them listen to his death rattle. He picked up his phone again and squinted at the blaring brightness of the screen. A text message appeared from a number that he did not recognize. Don't get paid til the 1st, the message read. Venmo u 20 then. Probably another one of his failed hookups. He typed out a message without thinking.

Nah don't need it anymore.

3:01 pm.

He should have put his phone away - hell, he should have taken out the battery and smashed it against the wall. But destroying his phone would only result in destroying the last tether between him and Marshall. He wouldn't call him, of course, but it was comforting to think that he had that option during his final moments. He smiled as he plopped his phone upon his pillow and slid his arms beneath his head.

Marshall.

The smell of the hoagie wrapper and the sounds of the trash collectors faded away as Evan thought about Marshall. They had never officially said goodbye. Marshall had not expected a single thing when Evan walked out of his office for the last time. Their final exchange had been curt and derogatory as was their norm. Evan had poked fun at his face, his manhood, anything to get a rise out of him. Marshall had not even lifted his eyes from the engine beneath him as he raised his oil-blackened pinky and crooked it several times in the air. Stick your finger in your ass and give it a good twist. Some bullshit gesture that Marshall had learned in Bulgaria or Romania or wherever the fuck he said he was from.

3:44 pm.

Time was sloughing along much too slowly for Evan's liking. His heart wracked beneath his ribs as his anxiety mounted. Something was wrong but he was not yet willing to admit it. He had taken the pills early that morning, right alongside an omelet burnt along its edges and several handles of vodka. The nausea had not yet set in, he didn't feel dizzy, and his palms weren't as sweaty as he would have anticipated.

4:55 pm.

Evan sat up in his bed and spread his fingers along his cheeks. He had been so sure that his dosing was correct that he had not bothered to open the extra bottle of Tylenol that he had bought for insurance. Now, he twisted the cap off with shaking fingers and tossed it back, sputtering upon the pills as they slogged their way through his throat. He coughed and several flew across the room. He was quick to retrieve them and knock them back, followed by a quick swallow of the rancid wine that had been knocked over beneath his bed. Perhaps he was being impatient. After all, good things took time. He would just have to distract himself until the moment came.

Despite his better judgment, he flung himself out of bed and yanked the curtains across the broken window. Empty alcohol bottles rolled beneath his feet and electrical cords tangled across his ankles as he stumbled across the threadbare carpet. The yellow phosphorescent light in the bathroom flickered on with a buzz as he tugged at the faucet handles. Greenish water splashed across the stained porcelain sink as he leaned into the mirror, taking in his waxen pallor and sweaty forehead. The wild fear in his blue eyes frightened him but he was not afraid of death. He was afraid of living for any second longer.

5:36 pm.

Evan cupped the cold water in his hands and then splashed it across his face. He could no longer deny it - something was very, very wrong. Had he accidentally purchased some placebo sugar pill from the local dealer? Was the Tylenol sold in Walgreens nothing more than a cocktail of bitter carnauba wax and corn starch?

"Fuck," he said before balling his fist before his lips. Distraction. He needed to distract himself. Maybe he was just being impatient. All good things took time, even death.

5:42 pm.

He stared back at his reflection but he was not seeing himself. He was seeing Marshall: Marshall veiled in cigar smoke in the corner of the bar, Marshall whispering a prayer as he placed his weathered hand upon the bloodied neck of a Patient, Marshall grinning around a mouthful of chow mein doused in maple syrup...

Evan leaned closer to the mirror. He had noticed something: a faint spidering of black lines along his neck. He pinched his chin between his fingers and eased his head to the side to better see the skin along the side of his neck.

Marshall saying, 'let me show you something,' Marshall lifting a sopping black mass from a glass jar, Evan gagging at the smell and then muttering, 'is that mold?'

Evan ran his fingers along his neck. His veins…they had turned black and he hadn't even noticed.

5:55 pm.

"Oh no," he croaked. His back collided with the doorway and the light flickered ominously above him. "Oh, no, no. Please, God, no."

There was a rusty blade sitting upon the lid of his toilet, pried long ago from the jaws of a cheap plastic razor. He leveraged it against the track marks lining his tattooed wrist and then paused. They were there, too: the black veins. He had been too busy with his plans for suicide that he had never even noticed them. His bottom lip trembled as he placed the corner of the razor against his skin. The water brimming in his eyes caused his vision to waver and blur. Fuck dying. If what he thought was true then Marshal had betrayed him in the worst way.

Not betrayed. Violated.

He howled as he dragged the blade along his wrist. His skin split open around the blade and then bubbled with a viscous, black fluid. He paused, suddenly overcome with tremors, before raising the blade to his throat and slicing a thin line around his neck.

His reflection contorted around a silent scream. Whatever the fuck was dribbling down his neck was not blood. It was something much worse, something that oozed and pulsed with a fetid stench that filled the cramped bathroom space. He stumbled backward out of the bathroom as the black fluid drenched his white tee shirt and splattered along his jeans. He continued to scream as he searched the folds of his blanket for his phone.

Marshall wiping the edge of a scalpel along his trousers, Marshall adjusting the blinding surgical light above the operating table, Evan whimpering as Marshal whispered, "oh, you're awake."

He dialed the number that he knew by heart and pressed the phone to his ear. There was a crackle and then silence on the other end of the line and suddenly Evan no longer knew what to say. He sniffled beneath his palm as he listened to Marshall's breathing - slow, less than ten breaths per minute. Decreased respiratory rate: a product of Marshall's particular disposition, soon to be Evan's disposition. Evan choked around his sobs and Marshall listened in silence.

6:13 pm.

X

'Marshall.'

Even if the man could sleep, such a blessed reprieve would have eluded him on that night. He sat upon a chair in the corner of the room, his arms crossed loosely upon his broad chest as he watched the sun's slow trajectory through the sky. The woman in his bed had her arm tossed across her eyes. Every once in a while she squirmed upon the mattress and cursed beneath her breath. She wielded her vehemence like a sword against the world - or, specifically, against him. Of course, it was his fault that the room was too muggy, the blankets smelled like cigar smoke and sweat, the faucet in the kitchen was leaking again. He glanced at the clock on the wall.

6:00 pm.

His cell phone rang and the woman startled with a particularly impressive curse. He dug it from his pocket and stared at the screen. The man in the pulsating contact photo grinned back at him with his middle finger raised to the heavens. Evan W. The man looked at the blond hair and squinted eyes and felt as if he was looking at someone else completely, a man from a different period in his past - a man whose name was all too similar to Evan's.

"Shit," the woman said as she swung her bare legs over the edge of the mattress. He tensed as she wrung her damp arms around his neck and leaned over his shoulder, reading the name on the screen. "You gotta answer it. Now! You knew he would call."

The man pursed his lips around a sigh and then toggled the 'answer' button on the screen. The woman took a few steps back and then braced herself along the edge of the dresser as he raised the cell phone to his ear. At first, he could hear nothing. And then, Evan began to sob.

What was there to say?

The man knew that Evan had come to realize what he had done. The woman was right - the man knew that Evan would call. He had been thinking about the moment all day and yet he still felt woefully unprepared when it finally came. He dragged his fingernails along his palm as he listened to Evan sniffle on the other end of the line.

"It can't be undone," he said into the phone. The woman winced at his grating baritone and looked away. "So don't even think about doing anything stupid."

"It doesn't hurt," Evan whispered between sniffles. "Why doesn't anything hurt anymore?"

"Soon, Evan, you won't even remember what pain feels like." The man pulled the phone away from his ear and braced his fist upon his forehead. It was with some difficulty that he spoke again. "Isn't that what you always wanted?"

"I wanted to die, Marshall. You took that away from me. You-" There was a crash and then an enraged howl on the other end of the line. "You did to me what she did to you!" Evan screamed. "You made me another one of your fucking experiments!"

"Don't you ever compare me to that foul bitch!"

"Marshall-" the woman said in a warning voice. He pushed her hands away and reared out of his chair.

"I saved you," he cried as he paced around the room, emphasizing his words with a frenzied tapping upon his chest. "You should be thanking me, Evan! What was it that you always told me? That you trusted me to make the decisions that you weren't strong enough to make. You trust me, Ethan!"

Evan had said something. Marshall was too blinded by rage to recognize that he had used the name of the wrong man. He panted as he pressed the phone to his ear, his eyes narrowed as he attempted to make sense of Evan's whispered words.

"What did you just say?"

"I said," Evan chuckled dryly. "I said I'm going to kill you. You, and that bitch Rose."

The phone clicked. The woman screamed as he lobbed the phone at the wall, shattering the screen. Evan W.'s contact photo stared at him from behind a splinter in the glass before disappearing behind a final pulse. Call ended.

6:23 pm.

You did to me what she did to you.

The greater good doesn't always feel so good, does it, Karl?

The man buried his face in his hands and screamed.