Sad Phan Stories

It's not your fault

TW: SUICIDE, KIND OF GORE.

Phil was desperately trying to pull the sleep out of his limbs. How the fuck did he sleep till 13:45? It was dead silent throughout the whole apartment, he couldn't even hear the low hum from Dan's computer. Cautiously, he stepped out of the bed and over to his closet. He couldn't see where he was going. Partially because the blinds were closed (but he couldn't exactly open them before he'd gotten some clothes on), partially because he didn't have his glasses on. He made quick work of putting on a pair of jeans and a t-shirt.

He forgot what time it was, and the daylight blinded his newly awakened eyes as he uncovered the window. The light travelled into his room and across all his belongings, reminding him how messy he had it. It had to wait, however, because breakfast is always first priority. In this case it might be lunch; A brunch! He smiled at the silly word and returned to the bedside table to put on his glasses. He also put his phone in his pocket but almost immediately picked it up again to fix his very probable bedhead.

"Fringe check." He mumbled quietly to himself and cleared his throat as his voice cracked. He wasn't normally one to wake up this late, nor have a cracked voice when he did. Plus, he was feeling a suspicious pain in the back of his head, one that he could only identify as one thing.

He had a hangover.

What the hell did he do yesterday? He opened his phone yet again and took a closer look at his face. He studied his bloodshot eyes and slightly swollen face. Nothing too abnormal, but he couldn't shake the feeling that something wasn't right.

Suddenly, blurry flashbacks of a crying Dan with a bottle in his hand infiltrated Phil's tired mind. It made him back up a couple of steps, as if the memories were a monster he could escape by running.

It had been Phil's birthday yesterday. Of course, how could he forget? He couldn't remember anything other than a party and the horrid image of Dan crying.

Then, another flash of last night came along. This time, Phil pictured their living room. All of his friends were there except for Dan. Or rather, he was there, but he wasn't present. Phil couldn't remember drinking much, but considering he remembered almost nothing from last night, he probably did.

The memory continued. A song was playing so loud that his body shook with the bass line. He didn't recognise it. Behind all the bodies that were pressed together in the living room, he spotted Dan sitting in the bean-bag next to the stereo.

When I wake up, I'm afraid, somebody else might take my place. When i wake up, I'm afraid, somebody else might end up being me. And being me can only mean, feeling scared to breathe. If you leave me then I'll be afraid of everything.

It was as if someone yelled the lyrics right into his head and he heard nothing; Saw nothing but Dan.

Phil shook himself out of the flashback and stood up faster than he thought possible. He ran out into the hallway and into the kitchen. Empty cans of beer and wine bottles stood on the kitchen counter and some glass was shattered on the floor. He ran to the front door just to check. He didn't even know what he was checking.

There was only some mail and a threatening letter about eviction on the floor. He opened the letter and skimmed through it.

"Noise... Disturbed neighbors... Police..." He dropped the letter and went to his room again.

When he was about to enter, he saw that something was attached to Dan's door. With a knife. It was a note. Phil pulled the knife out of the wood and threw it behind him.

Dear Phil

If you're reading this you're probably wondering where I am. I'll tell you soon. Yesterday was the first time I saw you that drunk. It was pretty scary. I've been sick by the toilet, emptying my stomach of a long evening plenty times. But I've never been the person sitting on the side, pounding one on the back and comforting. "It will be fine, you'll see." It's actually quite ironic, when I think about it. Anyways, you passed out on the sofa, so I told the others to go home. I also had to carry you to your bed -

A thought struck him. He wasn't stripped when he fainted, right?

- and I cleaned everything up the best I could. Then I heard you speak from inside your room. So I went there. I sat next to you and tried to revive you from your coma. You got sick again. I took care of that too. But then came the reason why I am "gone". When we sat there on your bed, you said to me: "You are truly my best friend, no one else would be as a good friend as you!" and you smiled. You wondered what happened and I told you everything, also that you kissed Louise. "Oh." You laughed. "That's okay, she's pretty nice, right?" you smiled. I smiled back. But inside, I was about to die. You see, Phil, I've always liked you, more than a friend does and, quite frankly, it broke my heart. I knew that you would never answer my love, but I still thought that there was hope, I guess. I just wanted to say, that if you go into my room it's not your fault, I promise. It's not your fault...

The words rang in his head as if someone had struck a large rock to his temple, or just pounded his head really hard against something.

"It's not your fault..."

He didn't know if he would dare to open the door, but he brought his hand to the handle and gently pushed it down. A horrible odor hit his nostrils. It almost smelled like, rotten meat, or dried blood.

He flung open the door and stood still. He couldn't move. Before him sat Dan in his armchair. It was completely dark in his room, so Phil reached for the light switch.

He immediately regretted it. In the armchair sat Dan, indeed, but he was not in the state of living. His hand had stiffened in a hard grip around a crushed piece of the new large mirror he got for his room. The mirror laid crushed on the ground and the fragments of it had found their way into every corner.

But Dan's hand.

A bloody trail on the ground.

Phil sat down on his knees and put his hands to his mouth to stop a scream. The tears gathered in his eyes and he wanted nothing rather than to look away, but he couldn't.

"It's not your fault..."