So Sorry I'm Not Perfect ||Dnb|| ✔

2

Dream pulled a sealed envelope from the green box that had held the pill bottle and set it on his desk. It was a plain, white envelope, with 'Techno' neatly written on the front in black ink. Inside of it was a handwritten letter to his boyfriend.

'Dear Techno,

Haha, I don't really know what to say. How does someone go about writing a suicide note? I don't know, but I'm sorry. I'm so sorry.

I wasn't strong enough for this world, I'm sorry. I'm sorry for not being good enough. I'm sorry for being a fuck up. I'm sorry you had to deal with me. I'm sorry for bothering you. I'm sorry for everything I've ever done.

It's all just apologies, isn't it? Sorry after sorry after sorry. Well, I guess when you're a fuck-up, you have a lot of things to be sorry about.

Thank you so much for everything. honestly, you have no idea how much you meant to me. The only good memory I have of the past two years is being with you. I can explain about that later, maybe? But, seriously, thank you.

It's not you, it's me. This is my fault.

You're probably wondering why I decided to kill myself. I tried, I really tried. But I realized, I'm just not good enough, I never was and I never will be. I know it’s a bit cliche to write this in a suicide note, but it’s true. That’s just the way I am, and it makes me pathetic. If I can’t even look at myself in the mirror how am I supposed to go out and show myself to others. It’s painful knowing no ones really cares about me because they’re all busy hating me.

They don’t care whether I live or die, I’m a just a no one, just a thing they can laugh at or use. Even the small smiles I received from the people that pity me hurt.

“Things will get better” I’ve waited long enough to know that’s not true. The truth is things get worse, and they won’t stop getting worse until your dead. Or saved by someone else I guess, not in my case though.

It’s funny how life screws you over. First, it brings you into this world promising great things, and then it’s driving  you to kill yourself. That’s how it gets rid of the hopeless mistakes people call lives, the ones that were too weak to deal with their problems. I tried to deal with mine, it wasn’t the best strategy but it worked for a while.

Instead of overthinking and slowly driving myself crazy, I’d focus on the scars I’d create on my wrist using a blade. watching the blood ooze out the cuts relaxed me, I’m not sure why. Maybe it’s because I knew I deserved the pain, or maybe it was because I could physically see the life draining out of me. Surprisingly the stinging sensation didn’t bother me, it felt okay like it was always there. It sort of became a routine to pick the blade up everyday and make more scars. It was normal to me but it kind of lost it’s effect after time passed.

Which brings me to here. I'm finally done it. It doesn’t scare me like I expected it to, I’m actually a little happy that I won’t have to deal with anything anymore. I’ll finally get the rest I’ve needed for such a long time. someone will probably find my body, I’m not important so it might take a while. I won’t mind, I’ll be in a deep slumber anyway. I’ll be physically dead, I’m already mentally dead so I’m half way there.

I'm sorry, Techno. I'm so sorry. I don't want to go; I just want to get better. But I know I can't get better. this is the only way. So don't be sad, happy. Don't pity me. I don't deserve it.

Anyway I guess this is goodbye, since I have nothing more to write. Tell my mother I love her and I'm sorry that she ever had me. I love you.

I'm so sorry I'm not perfect.

- yours truly
Dream'

Dream sat down on the edge of his bed. A water bottle resting beside him, the pill bottle tightly grasped in his hands. He shook out a handful of pills, and, without thinking, quickly swallowed them. A second handful, then a third, then a fourth. Pill after pill followed the first.

Dream's hands were shaking uncontrollably. He dropped the pill bottle causing it to fall onto the floor, the few remaining pills spilling out. The open bottle of water tipped, wetting the soft blue quilt.

Still shaking, Dream fished out his blade from his pocket. He pulled up his sleeves and viciously slashed at his already wounded wrist. He hissed as the blade sliced open his skin, far deeper than he had ever cut before.

The blood poured out of the open gash. Both wrists dripped blood all over the bed and the floor. Dream felt himself growing light-headed and dizzy, the combination of his overdose and the blood loss.

He tried to stand up, but collapsed with a loud crash onto the hard wooden floor. His breathing grew heavy and labored. Sweat dotted his forehead, which was scrunched up in pain. "Techno," he gasped, "I'm so sorry."

Dream groaned. The pain was unbearable. There were no words to express it. Sweat dripped off his brow as he curled into a small ball on the floor, rocking back and forth from the pain. Against his will, a scream of agony burst from his lips. Tears streamed down his cheeks, mixing with the sweat and blood on the floor. "I'm sorry," he whispered one last time. "I'm so sorry."

Dream's phone rang. The screen lit up with the name and contact photo of ❤Techno❤. After a few rings the phone went silent, because no one was there to answer it.