Coward's Way Out

WARNING: From this point on, dark and suggestive themes such as suicide, self-harm, and abuse will be shown. If you do not like this, I suggest you stop reading the story (then again, the game had themes such as this.). Also, it's a long chapter with cursing.

A/N: No Dokis in this one. Sorry. This is for OC character development. More info down below.


"Wyatt?" I asked as I knocked on the bedroom door, "Dude?"

"..."

"Look, man, I've been meaning to tell you something," I said as I sat down, my back against the bedroom door, my knees by my chest and my arms hugging my legs. He still didn't answer. For some goddamn reason that I did not know why.

"I'm sorry," I said, "for saying that shit. I just… dude, I don't want you to go. You keep me sane all this time. What, with Dad being himself, drunk and beating my ass all day. Dude, you're the reason why I haven't shot myself yet."

"..."

"I shouldn't have said all of that," I said, "after you breaking up with Selena, after that fight with your buddies. You didn't need that. You didn't need that at all. After that shit that went down, you just locked yourself in your room."

"..."

"Wyatt?" I called out one more time through the closed bedroom door.

"..."

"I'm sorry, Wyatt," I said as I stood up. I looked at the door, that gate to God knows what. There was a picture taped on the door. It was me and my siblings just smiling into the camera with the view of the Hawaiian sun dipping below the Pacific. It was the last picture we ever took together.

"Dude?" I called out one more time as I knocked on the door.

"..."

You know what, fuck it. I grabbed the doorknob and twisted the metal handle, unlocking the door before me. Swallowing my pride, I gently opened the door. "Wy-"

Looking back on it, I could never forget that day. That day that I could never get back. That day where I lost my best friend. That day where I found my brother in his room, his body hanging listlessly in the air. His eyes, dull as the life seeped out of his eyes. His neck bent at the point where the noose held him high.

It's all my fault. If I didn't say that shit to him, he would've been fine. Ever since shit hit the fan, since his life went downhill in a week, he seemed depressed as hell. If I didn't say that shit to him, both he and his squadron would've been on an aircraft carrier by Okinawa by now. And everything would be fine.

I knelt by the gravestone and stared at the name one more time. The name that my brother carried. The name that had meant so much to me. "Why did you do it?" I asked, "I thought you were the strongest man in the world. Why did you do it?"

A teardrop rolled down my cheek. And then another. And then another. They dropped down to my chin and fell onto the gravestone as if it was raining. I let them fall. I couldn't stop them anyway.

"You're so fuckin' emo, you know that, right?" asked a familiar female voice from behind me. It sounded kind of exasperated, her voice that is. And by familiar, I mean it was my sister's voice.

I swallowed as I put my feelings behind me. That's something that's gotta be hard right? Putting your feelings aside? To put on a happy face, a facade? Someone's gotta be strong to smile when they don't want to. I gotta be strong. For him.

"Well hello you too, Megan," I said as I stood up, wiping the tears off my face before I turned around to face the person who insulted me.

There stood my sister, Megan, a few feet away, her dirty blonde hair hidden in the black hoodie over her head. She also wore a black pair of jeans, her hands jammed in her pockets, her thumbs sticking out of them.

She reminds me of a character of an anime that I watched. I even call her by the same nickname that that character had: Palmtop Tiger because of how short she was in height. And in temper. It's always the small dogs that have the biggest bark.

"I knew I would find you here," she said with a smirk.

But she always has that one flaw.

Of course she's wearing a hoodie. It would cover up her arms. Hide whatever was underneath the sleeves. To hide the problems she faced as well.

Without saying a word, I walked towards Megan. Our eyes met and once again I saw her. Her stark blue eyes brought color to her pale, doll-like face. She was also kinda on the short side, probably just an inch taller than Nakano-san. Hell, she was kind of pretty herself. I shouldn't say that though. I ain't from Alabama. Or Japan. Take your pick.

"Emo, you say?" I smirked, "You shouldn't talk. Look at what you're wearing."

"Well, I can't help it, can I?" asked Megan, "Mom and I are too busy doing other things to do the laundry. Even Dad's been busy drinking up a storm at the bar."

"At least he ain't at home," I said, "Is he there right now?"

Megan shook her head no, while closing her eyes. "Nope," she said, "Mom kicked him out again. This time over another fucked up bet in poker."

"How much this time?" I asked.

"A couple hundred," she replied, "Took it from your secret stash you hide under your bed. It's not so secret now."

"Motherfucker!" I exclaimed, angrily stomping on the ground, "Do you know how much fucking time it took me to get that much money?"

"Should've hid your money better," Megan said with a shrug.

I turned away from my sister, looking back at the tree, noticing its branches reach out to cover as much area as possible. I looked at one branch in particular, one that was thick and sturdy enough to withstand my weight.

"What I should've done is ended myself when I had the chance to," I said.

Just like that, the both of us turned silent. Even the birds didn't chirp their songs. Only a wet breeze rushed between us, making the trees rustle their leaves. The waking city down the mountain didn't make so much as a squeek. For a second, the world stopped moving. Just like when a poem comes to an end, I also wanted to stop moving.

"Sawye-"

"Yeah, I know, I know," I said, cutting my sister off, "It's just that…" I turned around. "This motherfucker has ruined my life in more ways than one. I just…" I felt myself tearing up again. Again with the urge. I'm actually surprised I haven't ended it all yet.

"I'm sorry," I said. "Fuck, this is what I didn't want when I went home. That son of a bitch is being like that again."

"He's always like that," Megan said. She looked up to meet my gaze one more time. "C'mon," she beckoned, "let's go. Mom misses you."

"Yeah, let's."

I followed Megan to her car, which was parked nearby. She drove in an old, beat up Jeep. One of the headlights seemed busted. We just didn't have the money to fix it. Dad's gambling and alcohol addiction is fucking us up big time. That's why I left. I wanted an ocean between us.

I tossed my bag in the back seat and hopped in the passenger's seat. The interior was well kept for the most part. Just a few tears in the cheap leather seats and armrests, but pretty much still in good condition. There was a solar hula dancer on the dash and a lei with pink flowers hanging from the mirror.

We rode home in silence for the most part. Nothing much has changed at home and my sister didn't feel like talking. She seemed tired, yet she was the one behind the wheel. I should've drove home instead because she kept making mistakes, but she insisted that she drive. If she gets me killed in a crash, I wouldn't really care. I'll be dead anyways.

We pulled into the driveway to a two story house. The lawn needed a little mowing, but for the most part, the house was fine. There was a little flowerbed by a window, with little petunias growing in the soil. Looks like my mother kept her garden as neat as she can.

I grabbed my bag and followed Megan inside.

The living room was pretty clean compared to the last time I saw it. The couches were cleaned as best as it can, but I could still see traces of a beer stain. The wheat colored walls and brown furniture gave the place a little rustic vibe to it. It felt homey.

There was a TV hanging on the wall, with the couches facing the TV. There were a couple of vases with flowers flanking the TV.

Hanging on the wall adjacent to the TV was a gun. The silver, chrome-lined custom Colt revolver had carvings on the white ivory handle. I don't know if it was loaded with the .44 Special rounds. Dad sometimes kept it loaded, sometimes not. I've fired that thing before and I have to tell you, that thing kicks like a horse. I don't want to know if it's loaded or not.

Dad also has a gun collection in the attic. A lot of them were old guns such as a Winchester Model 1887 and a Model 1897 shotguns to a couple of M14s and 1911s. I think he even has an old German MP40 submachine gun somewhere. I don't know if he sold that one for beer/gambling money. It's pretty much his second favorite hobby, aside from drinking and gambling. It's the most taxing hobbies out there.

On that same wall, there was a table with flowers. There was a couple of pictures of my brother in uniform. Framed and hanging from the wall below the gun was a folded American flag. The white stars contrasted with the dark blue background. I was the one who brought the flag into this house.

Mom works as a nurse down at the nearby air base, so she's technically a government employee. We're living off of the benefits Mom gets, as well as the G.I benefits of my brother. Dad also has a veterans discount because he served in Iraq during the Gulf War. So yeah, we're pretty much your typical American military family.

Mom wasn't home from work yet. She was supposed to get off of an 8 hour shift later today. She's a hard worker, I'll give you that.

My sister decided to take another nap on the couch while watching some Netflix drama on the TV. I went upstairs to put my bag away.

I faced my bedroom door. I used to share my room with my brother. I had the top bunk while my brother had the bottom. But now that he's gone, I converted the bottom bunk into another desk area where I studied. I studied hard to learn Japanese. I really needed this escape from my house.

I saw the picture again. The picture with my siblings at the beach, with the setting sun behind our backs. We took that when we went to the other side of the island to visit my great-grandpa. He gave me some of his belongings before he passed away. The most important one that I had gotten was a pair of dog tags.

You see, he was a medic on Iwo Jima and Okinawa. His job was to save his friends from dying on the beaches while getting shot at by the Japanese. He saved countless lives, received countless awards, but he could never get over the death of one of his friends. It was because it was something he was never prepared to face.

"Son," he said to me when he was giving the dog tags, "I have fought during the war. I have told you about my experiences. But there's one thing that I never did tell you.

"Being a medic," he continued, "makes you see the world in different perspectives. I didn't know this until my buddy died. Not because of the enemy, but because of himself. I saw that once we got back home, he was not himself. He was dead. Not physically, but mentally and emotionally. Sooner or later, he died. Couldn't live with the guilt of shooting a man. And that was one thing that had opened my eyes."

As he placed the dog tags in my hand and clasped it, he met my gaze and said, "Being healthy is not only on a physical point of view. Looking out for your friends well being is not just seeing if they are not hurt, but it is also seeing if they are alive in here and in here."

He pointed to his head and heart. "I see you saving your friends. Not from their struggles on the outside, but from their struggles on the inside. I want you to help yourself and those around you. I want you to keep his dog tags to remember that you were born to help people."

I kept those tags with me. I didn't bring it with me to Japan because I thought I might lose it. So I left it in my room.

When I got in my room, I saw that it hasn't changed since the last time I was here. There was a desk with a lamp on one side of the room and a bunk on the other side of the room, the bottom bunk was replaced with another little desk. There was a bulletin board hanging on the wall adjacent to the desk and bunk. There were pictures of my siblings, pictures of fighter jets, pictures of scenery. There was even a Ka-Bar knife stuck in the corkboard, the pair of dog tags hanging from it.

I plopped my bag on the rolling chair that was at the desk and climbed up into my bunk and just laid down and slept. I slept and slept. I didn't need my thoughts racing right now. It's not what I need right now. I wish I could just sleep and never wake up.

I woke up. I heard the front door open and close.

My room was dark. I don't remember closing the blinds, so I assume I slept the entire day? Ugh, my sleep schedule is now fucked because of the lag.

I climbed down the bunk and poked my head outside the door, trying to hear if I could hear who was at the door and hoping I didn't hear Dad's whoopin' and hollerin'. All I heard, however, was the jingling of keys and a familiar voice. Mom's home!

I ran down the stairs like a kid on Christmas morning. There at the door, I saw Mom dressed in blue scrubs. She looked tired, with a sort of thousand-yard stare in her eyes. There were dark bags under her eyes. Her hair was all messy, with locks going into her eyes even though she tried to tie it into a ponytail.

"Mom!" I cried out as I reached the bottom of the stairs. She closed the door behind her with a little bit of difficulty, with her work bag in one hand and groceries in the other. "Lemme help you with that."

"Sawyer!" she looked back at me and grinned, her face brightening up as if the mere sight of me had taken away any anxiety and depression. It kinda reminded me of when I saw Ono-chan yesterday. Or should I say the day before? You know what, this difference in time zones is really screwing me up.

I held my hand out and she gave me the plastic grocery bag in her hand. Once she was able to get the lock on the door, she spun around and embraced me. With my free hand, I hugged back. Megan decided to join in the group hug.

"Oh, so how's Japan?" Mom asked as she released her grip. I handed the groceries I was holding to Megan, who took it to the kitchen.

"It's good," I said, smiling.

"Great! Lemme fix up some dinner and you'll tell me everything when we're eating."

Without changing out of her scrubs, Mom immediately went to the kitchen to whip something up. I wanted to help, but she insisted that she should cook. So while she quickly made some spaghetti, I sat on the couch with Megan and watched TV while munching on chips.

After a bit, dinner was called and I sat down with Mom and Megan sitting opposite of me. As we ate our spaghetti, which was really good by the way, Mom asked me questions about Japan. The truth is, she never has left the island. She's been here her entire life. All of us have. Dad grew up here. Wyatt and Megan grew up here. I was really the only person to leave. Like the coward I was.

Mom asked me all about Japan, from the culture to the people. I told her about how strolling through the streets of the nearby city, listening to the bustling of the busy lives of people, and the occasional radio or street performer. I told her about the quiet suburban life, about how the calming absence of sounds made the experience feel longer. I told her about how my school was, about my friends Ono-chan, Saito-san, Nakano-san, and Takeuchi-san (I used their first names Sayori, Yuri, Natsuki, and Monika to make things a little easier for her). I told her about the club that I joined.

I tried to put as much vivid detail as I can. I know she won't be getting out of the island anytime soon, so I tried to really paint her a picture. Knowing Mom's vivid imagination, she can only daydream of going to Japan, the land of the rising sun. She happily listened as she imagined exploring the country, learning the culture, trying the cuisine, trying to talk in Japanese.

"Sawyer," she said, "You have so much potential. I see you actually doing something that I couldn't do. You're special."

"What am I?" Megan cut in, "Chopped liver?"

"Oh," said Mom, who embraced Megan with one hand, "You're always gonna be my little girl. You know, us women have to stick together."

I smiled as I saw Megan squirm to get out of the embrace with a flustered look on her face. After that, we finished up our dinner. Mom went upstairs to quickly take a shower and sleep after an exhausting day. I decided to visit Megan before heading to bed. I had one more thing to ask her. Only in private.

I opened her bedroom door and then knocked. I know that's counterintuitive, but she ain't gonna let me into her room any other way.

I saw Megan sitting on her white bed, writing in an old beat-up leather journal. Her room was neatly made, with a white mirror on her white desk, with the light pink paint complementing the whiteness. Knowing her emo and tomboyish nature, it doesn't seem like she'd have a room like this, but, well, she's a girl who only continues to confuse me.

"Yo," I said.

"What are you doing?" asked Megan.

"What, I couldn't come and talk to you? I'm only here for three days after all."

Megan rolled her eyes and sighed. "Alright," she said as she shrugged her shoulders, "Come in."

I walked in and took a seat in the white stool at the desk. Really, her clothing choices really contrast her interior decorating skills. But who knows. Stark differences in the colors can really bring out the best in people's personalities. And the worst.

"So how's life?" I said as I propped my elbows up on my knees. "I heard that you've already gotten yourself suspended again."

"No need to bring that up again," said Megan.

"No, come on," I insisted, "Lemme be your personal therapist. Tell me. What's on your mind?"

"Fine, if you insist," said Megan, who crossed her legs and shifted a little, "Doctor Sawyer.

"Those fuckers are up to it again," she continued in a more serious tone, "They just anger me. Every time I see their face, hear their voice, I immediately want to punch them. I know they're talking about me. How I'm a weirdo psycho."

"Well, first of all," I said, "Immediately wanting to punch them is signs of you being a potential psycho."

"Ugh, whatever," she rolled her eyes, "It's not like you'll get what I'm trying to say."

"Anyways, what were they doing that made you so angry?" I asked.

"I hear them laugh at me," Megan said, her voice quieter this time as her head drooped down, "Calling me a weird bitch and other shit. All because I'm not the type of person who goes to parties, but rather reads books and draws sketches."

"And your first idea is to sock them in the jaw. Fan-fucking-tastic," I shook my head in disappointment. "Speaking of, d'you make any new art pieces while I was gone?"

"Yeah, I did, actually," Megan said as she uncrossed her legs and leaned closer to me. She held out her journal and opened it to a specific page. She stopped at this one page and showed it to me.

The picture shown to me was a very detailed dragon. The scales and shadows were shaded a darker black to set a more ominous tone. The dragon blew fire in the air as a fighter jet seemed to fire missiles at it. Honestly, it reminded me of this one military anime that I had watched a little while back.

I flipped through a few later artworks. There were illustrations of the romantic brawl between two sides, the dark side and the light, the love and the hate, all illustrated on paper with a pencil.

I got to her latest piece. It showed a princess in a castle, but that wasn't my concern. Instead, I focused on a few drops of red near the base of the castle. Red, a color that Megan never uses. She only uses a pencil, not paint. That's what I was meaning to ask her.

I closed the journal. I put the journal on the desk behind me and looked back at Megan.

"Gimme your arm," I said, my hand outstretched to her.

She leaned back, away from me, while clutching one arm with the other. As if she were trying to keep me away from the truth. "No," she simply said.

"C'mon," I said, "You've been doing it have you?"

"Fuck off," she said, her voice sterner. She ain't gonna give me her arm willingly.

I lunged forward and grabbed her arm before she can react. She tried to fight back, but I was stronger than her. I pulled her arm towards me and grabbed the sleeve. I pulled it back to see her bare forearm.

Scars zigzagged through her forearm like the stripes on prisoner garbs. Some of them were old and white, but some of them were new and pink. There were some cuts that were fresh, some that weren't able to scar before I saw them. She still did it.

The truth is that Megan cuts. She cuts. She takes that goddamned blade and runs it across her arm. Enough to hurt, but not enough for her to bleed out. She started doing it since those assholes started bullying her at school. She didn't do it as much, but it really started to become an issue when my brother died. That's when Dad became worse than he already was. That's when things became physical. Intense. This was her way of coping.

"You've been doing it, haven't ya?" I asked. "You've been dodging your therapist?"

"Fuck you," she insulted, her face hot with anger as she yanked her arm out of my grip.

"Gimme your knife," I said, "Now."

Reluctantly, she reached into her pocket and took out her knife, a black switchblade. It was big enough and sharp enough to cut through skin. I pushed the button on the handle and a blade shot out of one end of the knife. There was a little bit of blood on it, but not so much to impede the functionality of the knife's mechanism.

I examined the blade before putting it in my pocket. "I'm keeping this," I said as I stood up and left the room, leaving Megan sitting on the bed. She probably has another blade, but she knows I know about her condition lately, so she'll probably try to reduce the urge to.

A few days later

I woke up in my bed. I stayed with my family for a few days already. I hung out with Mom and Megan, just going into the city. Now, I was supposed to leave later this morning to the airport to catch my flight to Japan. Mom and Megan were out getting groceries again, so I was alone for a bit. It gave me time to pack.

I climbed down from my bunk and looked around. My room was neatly made already. I cleaned up last night so that I don't have to clean when I get back. Or if I get back for that matter.

I walked over to the corkboard. There were a few pictures of my siblings pinned on the board. I smiled as I remembered when we took each picture.

"Someday," I said, "When the time comes. I'll come and see you up there."

I looked up as if I was meeting my brother's gaze as he looked down from the heavens above. It could be today that I go up there, maybe tomorrow, maybe the next day, month, year, decade. I could be up there now. I could've been up there now. I guess I didn't really have the guts to go through with it.

Looking at the knife embedded in the board, I examined the blade. The sharp piece of metal could probably cut through anything if you push hard enough. It's probably sharp enough to cut through my skin if I merely dropped it.

I shook my head and decided to grab the dog tags hanging from the handle and pocketed them. I then went downstairs.

When I got to the bottom of the stairs, I froze because I saw someone sitting on the couch. Someone that wasn't Mom or Megan. No, this was someone entirely different. Not someone who I loved. It's just someone who was important in my life. The reason why I struggle with myself.

"Well, I haven't seen you in a mighty long time," the person rasped. His voice sound damaged from all the smoking and the drinking.

I looked at the man and my heart sank. I didn't want to see this fucker at all. I just want him out of my life. He's the reason why I wanted to die.

"Dad."

"Come down here," said he, while using one hand to motion for me to move, "I wanna see my son."

I silently obeyed. I walked forward and stood in front of my father.

His beard was all tangled, beer stains on his whiskers and ratty white T-shirt. His breath stank of many intoxicants such as tobacco and alcohol. His torn jeans were dirty as if he trudged through a dark and muddy trench. There he was, the alcoholic son of a bitch of a father, sitting in my living room.

"Where have you been, boy?" he asked, his voice still raspy. "Japan? That fuckin' place?"

I stayed silent. I kept my chin as high as I can, only looking down with my eyes. I didn't want to even look at him. I only nodded yes, my jaw clenched as tight as it can.

"For what?" he continued, "For school? Ain't that right?" I nodded yes.

"You must think you're better than me, huh?"

"No Dad," I simply said.

"You think you're fuckin' smarter than me? Huh? Answer me you little brat!"

He stood up and towered over me. I stepped back nervously, the blood drained from my face. Meanwhile, I raised my arms up, ready to block any blows he might throw.

"You ain't better than me, and you ain't never will! You think you're better than me? Huh? Is that what you think of your father?" He put his hands on my chest and pushed me back. I stepped back a couple of steps as he kept shoving me back to the wall.

"Or are you just a coward?" he snarled, "Running away like a wuss. Running off to Animeland or something, eh? Huh? Say something!"

He shoved me back into the wall. Meanwhile, I was scared out of my mind. I didn't want to get hurt. I couldn't think of any ways to protect myself.

My back hit the wall behind me. My brother's shrine rattled next to me as my back forcibly hit the wall. I looked at the shrine, at the pictures and the flag, as well as the vases, as I frantically looked for something to protect myself with. I need a weapon!

The gun hanging from the wall caught my eye. That's it!

I shoved Dad back a little bit, enough for him to stumble backward. That gave me room to move, so I took that opportunity to run over and grab the cattleman's revolver by the handle. I quickly pointed it at Dad, aligning the white dots of the iron sight.

He froze in his tracks as he realized he was in my crosshairs. Meanwhile, I was heaving nervously, my shoulders rising and dropping, my hand shaking as I held the gun pointed at his chest.

"Oh yeah? You think that's gonna save ya?" hollered Dad. "I don't think you even have the guts to pull the trigger!"

I drew in a shaky breath. Using my thumb, I hesitantly cocked the hammer of the revolver back, hearing the click of the lock that held the hammer back. I was praying to any god that the gun was loaded.

"C'mon!" he yelled, "Shoot me!"

I froze. I couldn't move. Not at all. Even with a deadly weapon in my hands, I felt like a cornered rat, anxious for when the cat strikes.

"Or better yet," he said, "Turn that gun on yourself. I know you wanted to see him again. So go ahead and pull that trigger. You fucking coward."

Wh-what? I thought. As I did that, I dropped my arm. I examined the revolver in my hands. The clean chrome finish glistened in the sunlight that streamed through the window. The intricate engravings seemed to flow and crash like the cliffs of a rocky shore. With the hammer cocked back, all I have to do is pull the trigger.

I put the end of the barrel under my chin, pointing the gun towards my brain. I really was facing Death at this point. I've done this before. This ain't the first time. But before, I've always had second thoughts. I don't know if I should end it all. Do I really want to pull this trigger?

I thought about those who might worry about me. Mom, Megan, Ono-chan, Nakano-san, Saito-san, Takeuchi-san. Really, I don't have many friends in this world who'll care if I do it. But will they really? I've only known the girls for a few months now.

But… I'm already so close to them now. Ono-chan's pretty much a best friend to me. Nakano-san and Saito-san, I have so much to learn about them. With Takeuchi-san, I never really did get that win against her.

Whatever. It's not like I can worry if I'm dead.

In thinking so, I pulled the trigger.

Click!


Honorifics: (Underlined honorifics are the ones used in current chapter)

-san: Most common, it is an all-purpose suffix that can be used in any situation where politeness is expected. Basically the titles Mr. Ms. etc.

-sama: This suffix is one level higher than "-san" and is used to confer great respect.

-kun: This suffix is commonly used at the end of boys' names to express endearment.

-chan: Feminine version of -kun.

Senpai: Superior/Upperclassmen.

Sensei: Master.


A/N: I know what you guys are gonna say. "But author, this was supposed to be a DDLC fic!" I understand, but do you guys know how that game went? And I know this is a dramatic change in mood. But that's also how the original game went. I wanted to rope you guys in with fluff, and then snap! Quite literally in a few cases... Too soon? But anyways, if you ain't into edgy shit like this, I suggest you get out before you bash me. Because it's only gonna get worse from here. Not gonna hint too much.

This chapter was also a pain to write, even though I thought of this chapter beforehand. Not that it was hard to think about, but it was just a little too depressing. But that's what I wanted I guess. I reap what I sow. But it does explain a few things. On that note, I'll leave you be.