This story will deal with heavy topics like suicide, serious illness and self harm in detail. If you got through the game without any major difficulties, you should be fine, but still I ask you to proceed with caution.
You don't remember when it happened exactly, but at some point you decided you'd had enough of this shit. It wasn't just some particular shit you were done with, but all shit. The shit that your life has become. There's just some important cases that you need to see wrapped up that would end up totally fucked if off yourself immediately.
It was definitely some time after THE SHITKID AMNESIA INCIDENT. Yeah, things were shit before, but since, it's been just unbearable. You thought he was lying at first, making some great joke at your expense, paying you back for some dumb shit he's made you suffer for several times over already. But you know Harry and you know there's no way he'd be able to keep up an act like this so long.
Judit is a good partner. She'll soon be a good partner for someone else. The problem with Judit is, now you just get on with things and do your job. There's no drama, no diverting tangents. Now you have what you wanted, you don't want it any more. And you can't goad Judit into hitting you when things get too much and a real fight is the only thing that can clear your head. When it comes to putdowns and insults, Judit can give as good as any of the men at the precinct. But it's not enough.
Your life is empty. Distressingly so. Everyone else around you is important to someone else. Judit has her husband and her kids. Trant has his son and all of his fancy international friends. McLaine and Torson are thick as thieves and they have their families too. And Harry and Kitsuragi, you don't even want to know what's going on there, but they're freakishly close. It's a slap in the face to see Harry happier and more functional than ever, while your life circles the toilet bowl. Asshole.
You hate it. You hate him. You hate them all. The only comfort is when some small misfortune befalls one of them. Only then does it feel like the world is being slightly more even-handed in doling out its crap.
You've got to this stage before, where you're actively weighing up methods to escape your godforsaken life. But before those feelings were fleeting, and could be banished by some distraction or a whole lot of booze. This time, the feeling is persistent. You wake up in the morning and wonder if it's possible to suffocate yourself with your own pillow. At night you wash your sleeping pills down with alcohol and hope the combination kills you in your sleep. Sometimes you're seized by the sudden urge to walk in traffic, fuck those cases, fuck everything.
As of yet, you have not settled on a method. When it's time, you'll probably just go for whatever is easiest. You don't care if it hurts. If it does, then good. And you're not one of those people who gives a fuck about leaving a mess or traumatising people. The world is full of trauma and messes, what's one more? Once you're dead, they'll just have to deal with your body then that's it, no more problems. For them, and more importantly, for you.
A sudden cough forces you to emerge from the depths of your thoughts. A brown folder is being pushed slowly but insistently along your desk towards you. You look up and are greeted by a shockingly dour expression on the face of Trant Heidelstam. His lips curl upwards in an automatic fashion, but only slightly. Unusual for him. This man would have a grin even for a mass murderer. He must be pissed at you for ignoring him. You can't explain that you were thinking about killing yourself. You saw enough times how uncomfortable it made people when Harry was in one of those moods. That's something that hasn't happened lately.
You realise Trant is talking to you, and you've just been staring at him blankly. All you catch is "...so far."
"What?"
"I'm afraid I'm feeling a tad under the weather."
You let out a laugh. "Wild night of sex and drugs, was it?"
"No," Trant says, frowning. He is leaning on your desk now. "But regardless, I will be leaving early today."
You find yourself wondering if you will be allowed to leave early, once these cases are complete and you can finally go and end it all. Of course you will. What are they gonna do, yell at your corpse?
"I am sorry about the profiles."
"Yes-yes. Wait, what profiles?"
"These profiles," he says, tapping the brown folder.
You shake your head, uncomprehending.
"Did you not hear me before? I was saying that I know you wanted me to put together psychological profiles for all of the gang members by the end of the day, but I'm afraid I won't be able to complete them. I thought you might like to see what I've done so far."
You shake your head. "I don't have time to read all this shit today. Finish them, you've got hours."
Trant has given up even trying to smile at you now. "I don't think you understand. I'm going home. If it's more than a passing bout of malaise, I may not be here tomorrow." You notice he is looking a bit pink and sweaty. Maybe he isn't lying.
"No, I need you here tomorrow. What if I have questions?"
Trant leans more heavily on your desk. He gives you a tight smile. "If I can drag myself in, I will. Just for you."
"Can I have them?" you say as he turns to leave.
"Excuse me?" he says, turning back to you.
"The profiles."
"They're on your desk, Jean," Trant says. "I think you need a good night's sleep."
"Sleep won't fix what's wrong with me!" you yell as he walks away.
"Get yourself a piece of ass, that'll sort you out!" McLaine yells across the room.
"Yeah, how long's it been, Vic?" Torson adds, laughing.
"Fuck off!" you yell, then drop your head forward and return to what you were doing before you were interrupted, biting chunks of flesh off the inside of your mouth and scraping at a scabbed over cut on the palm of your hand. Sleep happens, or it doesn't, you have little control over that. And as for going out and getting laid, it's far more trouble than it's worth for an awkward fumble or something you barely recall, depending on how much you had to drink or take to find someone you can make a mutual agreement to settle for.
Finally your shift ends and the cases and your colleagues and everything else about your job falls away. You go home and you can concentrate once more on yourself and your own misery.
In the cupboard there's half a bottle of pale-aged whiskey that you treated yourself to when you got your last paycheque. You put it away because you didn't want the whole thing disappearing in one night. Still, half of it went somewhere and you don't recall what it tastes like. You take the bottle out and pour a modest amount into a glass.
You turn on the radio and sit down with your drink, putting it down momentarily to light a cigarette to keep your other hand occupied. You smoke, you drink, you stare at the wall. What delightful monotony. This is the closest you ever get to relaxing.
A song comes on the radio and you're transported into the past. You're sure you once danced to this song with Harry. Or beat the shit out of each other while it was playing in the background. Same thing. You should never have spent so much time with him outside of work. Only a fucking idiot thinks a colleague can be more than a colleague.
You stub out your cigarette and take another swig of your drink. Turning off the radio or changing the station is an option, but would require getting up. You scratch your chin, running your fingers over the uneven skin that your beard hides. As the song plays, you pick at the lumps with your nails, chasing some impossible ideal of adequately smooth skin. Not that you actually care. You'll never look like some male model, even if you weren't too old for that shit. No, you just want to even out the bumps so they can't be there, tempting you to claw at your face. You're only ever able to leave it alone only long enough for progressively larger, even more tempting scars to form.
The song is still going. You want to die. You'll be dead soon, you reassure yourself.
You don't remember getting up, but suddenly you're refilling your glass again. Not much is left in the bottle when you decide you've had enough of being awake and want to attempt sleep.
When you take your trousers off, your hand brushes over a particularly bumpy part of your thigh. You look down and remember last week when you got a little too carried away with a razor blade and had to stitch the wound yourself. You inhale sharply, remembering the sweet agony of passing the needle through your skin, pulling the thread tight and tying it, then cutting it off. Then doing it again, and again.
The wound is still red, and hurts a little when you press down on it, but it's healed enough to take the stitches out. You run a lighter flame over a pair of scissors to sterilise them, then snip through the stitches. The booze isn't enough to numb the sharp pain as you pull them out, one by one.
You run your fingers over the fresh red wound and think about how easy it would be to dig your nails into it, find a nice uneven patch for purchase, and tear it open again.
No. When you're reckless like this, you end up needing to stitch yourself up. And you're too tired and drunk to do that again. You wouldn't want to spend your last few weeks dealing with an infected wound.
You sleep like shit. It feels like you finally drifted off just to get immediately jolted awake by your alarm. You fumble about for a pick-me-up, but you keep finding empty bottles and empty strips of pills. Your hand finally closes on one individual circular pill. Some letters are stamped on the side of it, but they could be anything.
Fuck it, you think, and shove it in your mouth. You go into the bathroom and wash the pill down with some water from the faucet. You catch a glimpse of yourself in the mirror. You look dead already.
No time for that shit right now. You tear your eyes away, and shower quickly, resisting the urge to scratch and scrape at your scars and uneven skin.
On the way to the station, you feel the mystery pill start to take effect. You feel better than you did, but no more awake. It was probably an opiate, not an upper. But the good thing about opiates is they stop you from giving a fuck. There's never a bad time for that.
When you get to the precinct you are reminded that this morning the whole of C-wing are scheduled to have a meeting about what you unofficially call THE FUCKING GANG CASE. The meeting you called. You really don't want to do this. The opiates in your system rub your shoulders and quietly cheer you on.
Half an hour in and you've already heard enough to know that nobody's made any groundbreaking progress on this case. Gang members killing gang members, who gives a crap? The RCM wouldn't, not ordinarily, not unless dead bodies were piling up in the nicer areas of Jamrock, like they were now.
They got onto the tedious topic of individual members of each gang who are current suspects. There's so fucking many of them. Now it is time to look at Trant's profiles of them, which you haven't yet got round to reading through. You turn to Trant to ask him something, but see that he has not yet returned from excusing himself earlier. Before anyone else can jump on this opportunity to get out of the meeting room for a few minutes, you go to find him yourself.
He's not in the main office, the kitchen or the break room. You take the opportunity to step outside and light a cigarette. The soft reassurance of the opiates have all but left your system now, and your various aches and pains and disdain for everything have returned.
You walk around the building, resolving to make this cigarette break take as long as possible. Someone else has the same idea. Trant is leaning against the wall.
Walking over to him, you lean on the wall beside him. "Really wanted to get out of that fucking meeting too, huh?" you say.
He turns to look at you, and laughs oddly. Like you're in a position to judge, but he looks like crap. He's breathing heavily and visibly sweating, his usually perfect hair stuck to his forehead in clumps.
With anyone else, you'd make some joke about how fucking terrible they look. But you've always felt weird about being hard on Trant. You put your cigarette in your mouth, then take the packet out of your pocket and offer it to him. He shakes his head.
You stay there beside him and smoke your cigarette in silence.
"Jean?" he gasps, and you look at him. He has his hand on his chest. "I think I'm having a heart attack."
Your cigarette almost slips out of your fingers as you are seized by panic. Trant grabs onto your arm. Fucking hell you wish it wasn't you who has to deal with this.
"Okay, I'm going to need you to sit down," you say, taking him by the shoulders.
"On the ground?" Trant says breathlessly.
"Yes. Unless you want to fall down."
Trant allows you to help him down to a sitting position against the wall. You kneel in front of him. He's looking at you like he believes you know what you're doing. It's unnerving.
"Okay, I'm going to get Gottlieb," you say, getting up. You turn back to him and say, "Try not to die!" before hurrying off.
After a terse conversation with the doctor, you go back outside with a single pill in your hand. Trant is obediently still sitting, and still alive. You get down on your knees in front of him again and hold out the pill. "The doctor says you need to chew on this."
Trant takes the pill from your hand and looks at it, his breathing still laboured.
"It's aspirin. If you're having a heart attack it'll make you not die."
Trant put the pill in his mouth and chewed it.
"Yes. Good," you say.
You start to fidget with your hands, and wonder if it would be frowned upon if you had another cigarette while you watched over him.
"I shouldn't have come into work today," he says.
You feel a stab of guilt for telling him you needed him here, but you don't admit it.
"Will I be okay now?"
"Yes yes, of course you will," you say quickly, before the doubt can creep into your voice.
"I feel a little bit better. I'm sorry for causing such a fuss."
Your knees are hurting, so you move to sit beside him with your back against the wall. "I'd have done the same if I thought I was going to fucking die," you say. It's a lie. You'd have probably let it happen. But for anyone else, it's a reasonable course of action.
"Thank you," he says. He's smiling again, which is a good sign.
"What for?"
"For coming to my aid and reassuring me. Like a knight in shining armour."
You scoff. "Fuck off," you say softly, "you think I can't tell you're being sarcastic? Me, the fucking king of sarcasm?"
Trant glances upwards. "Hmm. Kings aren't traditionally known for their medical skills and kindness. Except perhaps King Louis XVI who nursed a poorly lamb back to health, although the historical validity of that tale is contested."
"Okay, now I know you're feeling better," you say, smiling despite yourself. And you realise that Trant has been unusually quiet these past few days. There's something soothing about the way he goes off on tangents at the smallest opportunity, even though you often don't have a clue what he's talking about and certainly won't remember any of it.
Trant smiles at you and his eyes crinkle at the sides. He knows exactly what you mean.
You get up and help him to his feet, and walk slowly with him back into the building.
The meeting takes the whole of the morning and threatens to spill over into the afternoon. You keep glancing over at Trant, who you have started to think of as your patient. Your poor sick lamb. What? No. Of course it is your responsibility to make sure he doesn't have a heart attack and die on your watch. There'd be no talking your way out of that one. Trant's important, even if Pryce doesn't kill you if you let that happen, the fucking Coalition government would probably have you assassinated. You become progressively more hostile to anyone who tries to extend the meeting further, even Trant, it is for his benefit that you cut it short. He hasn't fallen off his chair yet, but he still looks not great.
Everyone is tired and grumpy after the meeting. You included, but never mind that, you have something else to focus on. You follow Trant back to his desk.
"I'm taking you home," you say quietly.
He looks up at you, surprised. "What? No. I'll be fine, I think."
"Don't make a big deal out of this. Just come on," you say, keeping your voice down.
Trant nods dutifully and grabs his things.
You grab the keys for one of the precinct's pool motor carriages and lead Trant around to the garages. He's quiet on the journey, and when you glance over at him he's fallen asleep. Fine, my ass, you think. You've only stopped by Trant's place a couple of times but luckily you remember how to get to there.
You were hoping your breaking would wake him up, but you have to shake his shoulder.
"Hmm? Oh, sorry, must have nodded off there," he says, stifling a yawn.
You walk him inside, and he doesn't stop you. In the elevator he presses the button for the top floor, the seventh. There's only one door on this level. He unlocks it and invites you in with a tilt of his head.
"Sorry, I haven't tidied," he says as you follow him down the hall and into a spacious living area. There is a single cup on the coffee table, and some colouring pencils. Books are piled in various places and a child's jumper is on the back of a chair. You'd hate to think what he would say about your apartment.
This place is tastefully decorated and everything matches. The art on the walls is more avant-garde. There are many bookcases and shelves full of more art you suppose, there's a modern projector and a reel-to-reel tape player, and a radiocomputer sits in the corner, quiet for now. Trant has everything. You don't kid yourself that you wouldn't be depressed living in a place like this, but it'd sure be a better place to cope with being depressed.
"You'll be okay, now?" you ask, when you remember to stop gawking at his living room.
"Yes yes, don't worry Jean. Thank you for bringing me home."
"You have someone to call if you need them?"
Trant's brow furrows. "Well," he says, "not as such. Oh, but I'm sure I could think of someone if it's a matter of life or death. Don't look at me like that, Jean. I'll be fine. I mean, you'd be welcome to stay, but I'm sure you need to get back."
You don't know how you were looking at him. "If you need someone, call me," you say, looking away. "Any time." You go over to the telephone and scribble down your home number on the pad of paper beside it. You don't remember if you ever gave it to him.
"Thank you," he says, and you have to look away again when his smile drops. You never make the right expression when someone thanks you, people have said this to your face. You really wish people wouldn't thank you, it only makes things awkward for everyone. "I mean it."
You nod as he sees you out.
You find yourself thinking about Trant at home, dying of a heart attack because he lives alone and has no-one to come to his aid. This sort of fucking thing happens all the time in Revachol. For a city with so many people, so many conflicts, so many people are all alone really. You expect that when the time comes, you'll end your life in your apartment. And you have thought about it, how long it will take for anyone to notice you're missing, to break down your door and find your body. It'll probably be work who misses you first. Who else is there? Maybe your landlord if your rent goes overdue.
The thought of your corpse lying there for days isn't sad, it isn't some great tragedy. We all knew it would happen sooner or later, the people who knew you will say. But the thought of having to break down the door of Trant's apartment after he's been missing for days haunts you. You're terrified of him not turning up for work tomorrow.
The way Jean and Gottlieb treat Trant's suspected heart attack is based on current first aid guidelines. Probably not great that Jean left him, but sometimes there is no other option.
I hate to sound like that person, but if you're affected by the topics in this fic particularly suicidal thoughts, please talk to someone you trust. It won't make things worse, I promise.