TRIGGER WARNINGS: Torture, Attempted Suicide (will also say anxiety is really prominent in this chapter too, as well as depression, so...).
Luffy's gone out of town with his friends. Law's left all to his lonesome, and he forgot how ridiculously crazy the quiet and being alone drives him. Absolutely hates it. Actually can't think of anything he despises more at this moment, this minute, this second, than the quiet.
The police sirens outside do not count. Background noise is well, background noise. It's actually the craziest thing to him, that he can pick out each noise coming through his window and in a way, raise the volume. Hears maybe teenagers, shouting and laughing at each other. Some homeless man telling those teenagers to believe in god, at the top of his lungs, no less. He sounds very determined.
Kind of misses hearing Luffy run around and shout at him that there's only one steak left in his fridge, rather than the god damn six he thought that Law had. Law doesn't even eat meat. It's all just Luffy. Stocks up on that shit like he's preparing for an apocalypse. And damn it, it isn't even his place. He's just at Law's that often.
Not now though, he's out. Celebrating fuck knows which friend's birthday with all his other little acquaintances. Law's happy at least he got to get out of this shit hole of a city, even if its only for a few nights.
And while he's glad Luffy's out having the time of his life with Jane and John doe, he on the other hand is not.
It's the worst night he's had in a while. Everything feels like it's coming crashing down around him. Everything that he's done up until now has been for nothing, it was all faulty. The nails weren't hammered into the foundation properly. There's nothing protecting him from anything anymore. Every thought hits him like a jab. Even wraps his arms around his stomach, feels so sick he could throw up all over the table in front of him any second.
How he's not good enough. He'll never be good enough. That even now, all he's doing is going day by day, night by night. It's not good enough. He wants to be better; he wants his life to be better. But he feels like he's one step away from a straitjacket. The reasonable side of his mind tells him that he is indeed, losing it, so he must be.
But really, it's so damn hard for him to do it. To be better. To keep at this strenuous day by day lifestyle that isn't even a fucking lifestyle. It's just waking up to his nightmares in the middle of the night- when he does sleep, doing fuck knows what to pass the day and then repeat. Hardly eats, hardly sleeps, hardly lives.
So it's not that big of a deal, right? That he could really just end it all right now.
There's no sound other than his sobs, echoes throughout the apartment, kind of taunting him. Reminds him he's alone and he's got about… no one.
He's not all lost though, really. He looks at his phone, dials Luffy's number because he knows if not Rocinante, Luffy's the next best thing. He knows how to put a smile on his face, how to untwist his emotions. Heart thumps loud in his ears along with every ring and it's taking way too long.
"Hey-"
"Luffy." He can't even speak. Just calls out Luffy's name and it sounds so disgustingly needy.
"Yeah? Law?" He hears Luffy continue to call out his name, can hardly hear it through such loud shouting in the background. Completely forgets about the stupid birthday. Shit.
"Law?" Asks again, and he's all choked up.
"Yeah?"
"Yeah? Yeah what? You called me. Are you okay?" Right, he did. But no. No he's not. His need to find the nearest hole or cave and just rot the rest of his life away in complete solitude is unhealthy, to say the least. But it'll be a day the devil laughs before he up and tells Luffy that, through the phone, while he's at a party, no less.
"I- yeah. I'm okay." Law doesn't even think he sounds convincing, has no clue if Luffy buys it.
"Are you sure? Do you need me to come back?" He offers, Law strongly considers taking him up on it. But that lingering thought and annoying voice shouting at him, 'you're a burden', it says, leads him to say otherwise.
"Yeah, I'm sure. I don't want to ruin your trip. I'm okay." Lies right through his teeth, almost like it's second nature. What he knows best has come down to breathing and lying to the one person who's actually really given a damn about him. And sometimes he can't even breathe right, so it's just lying. He's just the embodiment of lies. A liar. Liar, liar, liar.
"Promise?" Luffy asks through the phone, like a child. He'll just give him what he wants to hear.
"Yeah, promise." Law thinks he's becoming quite cunning for his age. If he were ever to live to be an old man, he's sure he'd be one hell of a smart ass at the park playing chess with some random teenager. Going on about his life story. Which will probably bore the kid, he thinks. Maybe he'll skip out on it.
"Law!" Luffy nearly shouts into his ear. He's a little too busy with his head in the clouds.
"Sorry, what?"
"I said 'stay safe' okay?" Luffy repeats and Law only wishes. The biggest threat to his… safety, is probably himself.
"Okay." Again, lies rolling off his tongue like saliva.
Hears Luffy tell him he'll be back soon and apologize for leaving through drunken slurs in the background that are louder than Luffy. Shockingly.
Gives him a simple hum, and somehow the apology makes him feel about… ten times worse, with another ten added to that.
Like Luffy practically dropped a bomb on him. Contains a serum of some kind thats strong enough to drop his already rock bottom mood down, way down, to the pits of hell. And it burns. Go figure, who'd have thought? Shit was like fucking common sense. And apparently, next to breathing and lying, comes his impending anxiety. Which he does, wonderfully.
Should get a trophy for worlds quickest leg shaker because, his legs are shaking uncontrollably. As he bounces both of them up and down while his index finger goes back and forth against the chapped- or more so healing, skin of his bottom lip he'd chewed up while biting down as hard as he possibly could.
Is certain his voice has to sound shaky but with such loud noises in the background he figures Luffy's not going to pick up on it.
His stupidity leaves him to say he shouldn't be sorry- which he shouldn't. Law's not trying to tie him down, he's 19. He should be able to go out to fuck knows what city and do fuck knows what with fuck knows who.
And… Law's the biggest fucking idiot. Gives himself a gold star in 'how to make your panic attacks have panic attacks' and can very literally feel rattling in his bones. Like the little tremors before an earthquake. The shake of the land before a tsunami hits. Little crashes of waves onto the beach shore. Though there's nothing little about how hard anything he thinks of hits him. Wishes he'd shut up, or at least the annoying voice in his head.
He's yet to hang up, just listens to the long continuous beep that goes on for five, maybe six, minutes after Luffy says goodbye and hangs up. There goes his super not so foolproof plan to get Luffy to calm him down. In fact, has made his anxiety worsen ten fold. He's so damned tired of feeling like this it's beyond unfair, it's just a punishment now. For what, he doesn't know. He'd like to though. Like to know what exactly he did to deserve to feel this utterly hopeless and just down right repulsive excuse of a human being. Wastes his life in more ways than he can count.
His anxiety is more or less like a ridiculously large ocean wave, the kinds that only happen a few times a day and are amazing- so he thinks- to surf on if you're that skilled. And He can't stop the ocean wave. So naturally, the wise thing to do would be to grab a surfboard and ride the tide. To let himself feel, rather than trying to cut off all emotion.
Bitterly laughs to himself because it's got to be the funniest thing he's told himself all day. All month, even. Knows damn well there's zero chance of that ever happening. Shakily makes his way to his bedroom and sits on the side of his bed. Legs hanging off and he shakily pops a couple of his sleeping pills. Rubs his sweaty palms on the bed sheet underneath him. It's a feeling Law had decided way back when, that he hated. The odd wetness that was anything but water. Just grossed him out. Throws his larger cover off the bed because his body heat is enough to keep him, and at least five families and their dogs warm. Lays down and the sheets are cool through his shirt, he can feel it chill his damp skin. Takes a deep breath and decides it'll be best to sleep it off.
It's always better to sleep things off.
Sleep is as close to being dead as it gets.
There's the sound of metal hitting metal. He thinks someone might be swinging a bat and hitting the walls loud enough to wake him up. Consider them successful. He's fucking awake. Now what do they want?
His normally tanned face is ghostly white, and his eyes are rather puffy. Right one swollen nearly to the point he can't keep it open for longer than a few seconds. His hairs stuck together by sweat that drips down his forehead and into the crease of his brows. Cries coming from his cracked lips result in nothing but echoes into the empty room. There's an IV in the crook of his left elbow with god knows what kind of chemicals in it.
He's sitting in the same chair as before. He looks down, and there are burn marks on his chest and arms, though most of his forearms are bandaged up and they're strapped down to the armrest with rope and zip ties. He can see that the blood that had seeped through had dried up. A dark red. And he's looking around, wondering which twisted abandoned warehouse or basement he's in this time. But it looks more like a factory. Utensils of all kind that he recognizes as a surgeons tools are bloody, but placed in a very organized manner on a silver tray.
He squeezes his eyes shut hard, refuses to open them up again. And it hurts like hell, mostly the swelling being pressed down. But a sharp pain in his thigh makes his lids fly open. He screams out in pain, then coughs violently, sending a few drops of blood onto the cement floor underneath him. He looks down again, this time seeing a scalpel buried deep in his quad. Blood running down his leg and making a gross feeling puddle under him, seeping through the thin pair of pants he doesn't recognize as his own.
There's no one around him, but he keeps feeling sharp objects impale him. Blood being spilt, he cries out. No one can hear him. There's no one there.
Or so he thinks.
He's sweating and crying. Shaking. He wants it to stop, for the person doing this to him to just end it and put him out of his misery. That's wishful thinking.
A hand creeps up from behind him and covers his nose and mouth with a cloth. He struggles, even tries to bite the hand through the fabric, but it's no use.
"Sweet dreams..." They say.
Law's already passed out.
He wakes up to darkness, feeling a cloth covering his eyes and it's just dark. He tries to get up but there's far too many things strapping him down to the table he's spread out on to move. Tries to call out to someone but its all mumbles through the cloth or gag strapped to keep him quiet. He's breathing violently through his nose, can't get enough oxygen to his brain to make any sense of what's happening.
There's a sharp feeling in both his arms. Needles, he assumes and then there's a rush of whatever he's being pumped with. He tries again, to call out for help or to make the people stop doing this to him.
One arm full of a barbiturate, thiopental. And the other full of a stimulant, amphetamine. He can't see anything but his mind is spiralling out of control. Until the blindfold is removed, and he forces his eyes open to see the room spinning and feel like his body is melting away into a puddle of nothingness. His mouth remains open, like he's about to say something but he can't. He's just gasping for air because he feels like he's about to die.
His psyche's locked into a brain-breaking cycle of waking dreams that drive him crazy. Breaking him in every way possible, his mind develops the sight of all the people he once knew and called his friends and family hovering over him, playing around with him like he's an experiment. He shrieks, body trembling whenever the cold touch of a tool grazes over his damaged skin.
See's his younger sister giggling, like the game going on is fun through his bloodshot eyes and pieces of hair damped with sweat. The feel of a burn is good to him, groaning in a way that'd indicate he was enjoying it. So it happens again, a man who looks a lot like Rocinante takes a hit of the cigarette before pressing it to his chest repeatedly.
And there's a question being asked in a low voice, he can't tell if its his own mind or if it's coming from one of the many people hurting him.
"What do you want, Law?" The voice asks him and it sounds so soothing, so relaxing and angelic he almost doesn't remember he's being fucked with.
"Tell me what you want." The voice asks again after getting no answer from him. He's seeing stars, the moon, and the galaxy, all on the ceiling. It's quite a sight.
And he doesn't hold back, tells whoever it is that wants to know exactly what he wants.
"To die." He tries to say, but it comes out as nothing but a throaty bark from his gut.
But it's too much of a far-fetched wish; he's stuck in the twilight zone.
Wakes up with a loud groan and jolt, feels like he's jumped up so quick he could do some serious damage if it were a headbutt.
His hands shakily go for the insides of his elbows. No needles. Rubs his face and flops back down, buries his head into the underside of his pillows. The cold touch of the fabric sends shivers down his spine. Fucking hates the way his mind tortures him like this. Literally.
Really, it's obvious today is just one he'll add to the long list of many where he just wants to stay inside the house. It's safer that way. Not to mention he won't have to deal with the excruciatingly tiring effort he's got to put into actually getting up out of his seat, changing, then undressing and showering because he hasn't in a while. Dressing again, getting out of the house, it's all just a wasted effort. And he's just tired.
And he knows it's abnormal, to say the least. Doesn't take a genius to figure out that his pattern of living, his "lifestyle", isn't one that's working out and the sooner he change it, the better. That's beyond hard for someone as pessimistic as Law. Lets out a huge groan and just covers his face with his hands so the light peeking through his useless curtains don't burn into his eyelids.
His mind heeds the opposite of his wishes, doesn't leave him alone for more than a brief second without constant flashes of his nightmares and lists off possible things everyone could be doing to spite him. Like, what's Luffy doing right now? Is he hungover from over drinking himself even though Law told him to be careful? Is he waking up in some strangers bed? Is he even thinking about Law in the slightest?
It fucking drives him crazy.
Seeing his old friends carry on and live their happy lives, do what they've got their mind and heart dead set on is an annoying reminder of how he's bipolar and that kind of stability is nothing but some crazy out of the world desire he'll never have.
He wants to be left alone now. Not that he wants to be all by himself, he just wants everyone and everything to disappear. Doesn't want to go anywhere, see anyone, or do anything. Because no matter what he does, people are going to tell him he's doing something wrong. Or that he's not putting enough effort into what he is trying to do. That his trying isn't good enough, it's just not up to their standards. So he'll be a coward, he doesn't care, it's easier to hide.
Waiting for the bus, being cramped up against equally angry people who despise the strange personal contact, waiting in the office for his name to be called out of his psychiatrists mouth for the millionth time, and all other negative things. Every possible downside of something as simple as going to his routinely check ups and meetings, leaves him dreading the idea of doing anything. Even if it's for his own benefit.
Just lays in his bed and stares up at the ceiling through open fingers and feels nauseous at the thought of doing stuff. Stuff, things, it's all just… not for him. He's not suited, not mentally stable. Can't even hold down a job because depression crawls up his spine and rattles it in the middle of a discussion with a patient. Clearly not cut out for any sort of medical suited lifestyle because, well, he's sick.
He'll end up thinking of himself as the patient more than he thinks of the actual patient sitting in front of him. Will have a headache one day and automatically jump to the conclusion that he does in fact have a tumour the size of pluto. Or have really bad muscle pain in his knee and it'll definitely be a ripped tendon, he'll have to be put in a wheelchair for the rest of his life. Or something. It drives him to the absolute edge of a cliff, he's just waiting for it to crumble away under his feet. Watch it happen and not do a single thing to stop it. In fact, he'll probably encourage it.
Stomp down and jump around a little to induce the fall of Trafalgar Law.
His own body nearly takes him out by force, like his mind has no say in what he's doing for once. And he ends up going to his appointment anyways. His psychiatrist, looking happy and bright and it couldn't irritate him more at the moment.
He sits down, doesn't give so much as a hello, or good afternoon. Ask how her day is, he doesn't give a damn. He doesn't give a damn about anything. She walks over, it's all too quiet. She's usually bombarding him with questions. How his weekend was, if he did anything over the weekend, the weekend this, the weekend that.
He just wants quiet.
"How have you been feeling the past week Law?" She asks, and here she goes, he thinks.
"Bad. Really fucking bad." He says, and he's a mess. He hasn't fucked around with his skin, inflicting any pain on himself in a while. Just the question makes him anxious, going to pinch his skin but he sees her eyes dart to his hands, and just stuffs them in his pocket instead.
Doesn't she know it's rude to fucking stare?
"What's going on?" She says, like he fucking knows.
"I don't know. I just want the world to stop fucking spinning. I just want it to end."
"Want what to end, Law?" She asks him, and he knows she's asking specifically. Because that's her damn job. So sure, he'll be honest with her. Because at the end of the day, she deserves that at the very least for putting up with his blasted bullshit.
"My life. I just want it to fucking end already." He repeats himself, making her stare at him and he thinks for gods sake, if someone doesn't inform her that staring is the worst thing to do he fucking will. He feels like his heart could burst at any second, he's just waiting on it. For the countdown to hit 0:00.
"Do you have thoughts of hurting yourself or others?" She asks, and here come the long list of questions he'd had to listen to and answer the first time Rocinante had brought him in for an appointment. Or evaluation. Whatever it was, pissed him off. Even now thinking about it, really puts him in a bad mood.
"Others, no. I'm not crazy." He says, because he's not. He'd never do that. Himself on the other hand... "But I do want to do it to myself. I do, really badly." He admits and he can feel himself tense up under the intense watch of her eye. He can't make eye contact with her anymore, maintaining it feels like a bother. He's just lying back, saying how he feels. Thinking about how badly he wants to die.
Would jumping out the window kill him? The room was high enough, so maybe.
"Law, do you have a plan to commit suicide?" She asks, and it's like deja vu to him.
"Yeah, tons." He says, and it comes out sarcastically, but it's not. Because he really does have a long list. He's got plenty of ways to end his miserable life.
"Such as?" She asks, because he knows she wants him to be more specific. Needs to know if she should be worried, call someone and let them know he's a lunatic.
"I think I could do it by overdose. You know I have a ton of pills I've never taken. Or maybe I'll jump to it. It'll be just like flying, but with a more permanent destination." He says, looking out the window and he thinks he could be pretty deep right now. Someone should write a book on him. The stupid boy Law, and how he died. Both figuratively and literally, the special edition.
"Or maybe, I'll cut my wrists so deep I'll bleed out on the bathroom floor. All over the white tile." Still not looking at her and he can feel the shift in the air when he hears her change the leg she's got crossed. Like she's uncomfortable listening to him.
She's the one who asked.
"Law, what do you think your suicide would achieve?" She says and he thinks she's doing a pretty damn good job at keeping herself composed. If it were anyone else, he was sure they'd leave. But that is her job.
"What the hell else would it do? I'd be free of this piece of shit I call my life. That's all I want. Everyone else would be better off anyways, I'm nothing but a burden."
"I'm sure that's not-"
"Don't fucking say it isn't true. It is true. Whenever I tell someone I want to die they just play it off like I'm too much of a problem to be bothered with. It's better if I just fucking do it. Get it over with, get out of their way." He says, and it's funny to him. That he thinks he's still in people's way, when the majority of them have already left.
They're doing god knows what, being who knows how successful for themselves. Meanwhile what does he do? Go around fucking strangers and making the only person who's ever seemed to give a fuck about him miserable.
"Law, you must know deep down that isn't true. Do you truly believe that no one would care if you'd successfully taken your own life?" She asks and he doesn't even have to think. He knows his answer. Looks her dead in the eyes.
"Yes." He says, and he can even feel how dead his own eyes must look to her. How empty and utterly hopeless he is. And he just wants this shitty meeting to be over. So he can go home, to the quiet. Where no one's asking him fifty million questions about how he feels.
He's sick and tired of feeling.
He sits there, expression still and thinks of ways he could escape the room without her noticing. Thinks maybe if the phone were to ring, he could run out without her having a chance to follow. Because whoever's on the other end, is and always will be, more important.
But no such thing happens. The phone doesn't ring, she doesn't get up. Just sits there, writing things down and her mouth is moving but Law's not hearing anything. He doesn't want to talk. He wants to sleep. To sleep, and not be awoken by such terrorizing dreams that shake him to the core.
That's really all. A good nights sleep is all he wants.
But that's all Law does. He wants and wants, but he's got nothing to give. And that's not how the world works. You can't get and get without giving. Even Luffy told him that. Luffy. Of all people.
Luffy. He feels so shitty and needy for involving him. Thinks that car should have just hit him when he'd had the chance. Thinks he should have been one second faster, one step ahead.
Can't stop thinking about it.
His mind won't let him stop thinking about it.
He bites his lip, draws a little bit of blood and then snaps back to reality when his psychiatrist is standing in front of him, leaning down to make sure he's alright. That he's still breathing. She tells him to calm down, to just breathe. And that he's having a panic attack.
Again.
He doesn't want to feel this way anymore.
"Just breathe." She says, and it's easy for her to say. She's not the one being swallowed from the inside out, being eaten alive by this monster called depression. But he tries his best, to breathe. Gasps for air and his hand instinctively grabs onto her arm, like a beg, a plea for her not to leave his sight otherwise god knows what'll happen.
She doesn't leave, and she sits put in front of him, saying as soothing words and phrases as she can until he regains his own composure.
That to be truthful, isn't really all that calm. But he'll settle for it if it means not feeling like this.
This hated by the world and this hated by himself. That someone will toss down a solid rope into the pit of loneliness and pull him out. Because his life depends on it.
Law's surprised he'd been allowed to leave on his own after what he'd told his psychiatrist. Thinks it all really proves what he was sure of all along really, that no one truly cares. It's just her job to sit there and listen and ask questions.
It's quiet; his apartment is dark and silent. No noise emitting from anything. He can't even hear himself breathe. He drops everything in his hands to the floor. Books he'd picked up on the way home, thinking it'd be nice to read something new. Coffee he'd picked up, too. Spills all over the floor and he ignores it. Makes his way to the bathroom with shaky legs and uneven breathing. Locks the door behind him.
And though his legs feel like they're about to give way, he's a lot calmer than he thought he'd be. Knows that this is for the best, he just wants to get it over with. He can't go on any longer. He's so exhausted, his whole body aches each and every day, and his mind is fighting itself.
Don't do it.
Do it.
Don't fucking do it.
He'll do it.
He pops open the orange bottle, pouring out the rest of his antidepressants, minus the few that fall to the floor. This should do the trick, he prays. He checks his phone one more time, 6:22pm. And it's already pitch black out in the middle of winter.
There's no sun, no shine. No glimmer, no hope.
He stares down at them, god why is he hesitating? He has to do it, now, now, now.
Brings his hand up to his mouth, down they go.
He hasn't eaten anything all day either, he wonders if it'll help. Help him die quicker. He sits down on the floor, looking up at the light that looks like it's flickering above him. His phone is ringing and ringing, ringing in his ears until it all goes quiet. He already feels sick to his stomach.
Figures that while he can he should do some sort of an apology. And his hands are much too shaky and sweaty to go out and find a piece of paper and write out all this crap about how he wishes things had been different but in the end this is what he wants.
So he sends Rocinante a text: Sorry.
Knows it's probably the most pathetic thing of him to do. And figures even while he's undoubtedly dying on the inside, the very last thing he'd do is be stupid. Even in his last moments.
Coughs hard and it hurts like a bitch, switches conversations to Luffy's. Sends the same to him, because shit. He'd put him through hell as well; he knows he wasn't easy to deal with. He's sorry. He's so fucking sorry.
He is. He tried to help Law for so long, so hard. He's just a lost cause. Strangely though, he feels rather fine. Nothing's happening.
But after fifteen minutes, he can feel his heart racing. Palpitations so strong he can feel it in his chest, neck and throat. He's light headed, and his body instinctually goes to the porcelain bowl, but nothings coming out. He's just dry heaving. Antiemetics. He's holding onto it for the only support he has. His body won't respond to him anymore.
It's twenty or so minutes later, he thinks. He can't exactly see the time on his phone clearly. Though there's an unsettling buzzing on his fingertips driving him insane.
Everything's spinning and everything hurts. His legs are cramping up, he can't move an inch.
"...aw..." What? Even now he can't get quiet.
There's nothing fun about this. He curses himself, wishes he had taken more for it to happen quicker. In the end he's always going to be a failure.
"...aw!" What...? Wants it to be quiet.
He doesn't know how long it's been but his heart feels like it's trying to escape, break through his rib cage and run away. And he's hallucinating. His sister is standing in front of him, holding out her hand smiling. How kind. He'll be there, soon. His lips move, saying wait for me, but nothing comes out but slurs.
"LAW! OPEN THE FUCKING DOOR RIGHT NOW!" He hears somewhat clearly, but he's probably just imagining things.
He can't see. His eyes are spotty. And keeping his lids open feels like a chore, rather than a basic task. Can't hear a thing but constant ringing. And banging. It's annoying, but he's happy it's getting quieter. He doesn't have to deal with the noise. No more noise. No more voices.
He's sweating like he's been in the blistering sun for hours on end with little to no water, still gaging on air. Then there's a tall figure in front of him. He's got no clue who, maybe it's everything he's ever hated jumbled into one large monster, here to say goodbye.
There's more yelling. And he feels like he's being held up by something, being carried. Feels a drag of cold against his wet skin. Whisked away into nothingness. It's really all surreal, what he's feeling. He's just disappearing. He's becoming the embodiment of nothing. Finally, finally, he'll be free. Rid of all the hopeless sadness, the sleepless nights, the pain.
His eyelids won't open over halfway anymore. It's dark. He can't feel his heart anymore; maybe it's really left him after all.
There's a lot of shouting. A lot. His head is pounding, and his eyes close.
Then there's nothing.
It's quiet. Finally he's gotten something he wanted.
A/N: This was really hard to get out. I won't apologize for it though. I hope you well, enjoy? Or just you know, get a better inside view of how his mind works. I'm really trying to elevate the sense of realism in this story and it'll be obvious in the next couple of chapters as well. Please please leave me a review, I want to know how you all feel, just your general thoughts I suppose. Lots of love. ~S.