Where Does The Good Go?

Content Warnings: Referenced Suicide (hanging), Referenced Suicide Note, Crying, Feeling Alone/Abandoned
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It had been six days since Mac had seen the gang, not for lack of trying. He'd searched high and low for them, messaging them consistently to no avail. He felt like he was going insane as we walked the distance back to Paddy's that morning, knowing that he wouldn't see them there and that he just had another day of turning potential customers away (he couldn't run a whole bar by himself, now could he?) and sitting on a barstool, phone glued to his hands in hopes that there'd be some indication that they were alive and well (and coming back to him, most importantly).

He had immediately gone to the police when his friends had gone missing, worried sick, but the cops just brushed him off, telling him that his friends were adults and they could have just all gone off. Mac had countered by telling him how irregular it was for them to all just head off without fanfare.

Apparently it was irregular for a group of majority white men to get kidnapped as well.

Part of him knew that they were probably safe, off doing some intricate scheme and had just left him out. Hell, they could have wanted to out of sheer obligation, but Dennis probably told them off.

He did say he hated Mac, after all.

He always wondered if he was being serious.

"You've got to keep it together, man," Mac muttered, talking to himself. "No one hates you. You've gotta stop tellin' yourself that."

Talking to himself had become a coping mechanism recently seeing as he had no one to talk with, but it had begun failing and he just tried to lie to himself. He had an entire conversation with himself last night, imitating what Dennis would yell at him for.

He hated screaming, but he missed his friend's.

"No one hates you." Fake it till you make it, right? Or in this case, say it till you believe it, I guess.

Charlie always used to try to get Mac to come to the conclusion that his father hated him, but he had always known that. It was a tough pill to swallow, though, that his friends could too.

Could he even consider them his friends anymore?

Shaking his head, he realized how much like a psycho he must look like and stopped, not wanting the group to see on the off chance they would just walk in. He couldn't let his head warp his friendships considering they were the only one's he had.

They were the only people who cared about him despite what they may say. He knew that, but his brain liked to play tricks on him.

Mac never had done alone well.

Clasping his hands together, he bowed his head slightly, "God, hey, if you're actually listening and looking down on me at all, please give me a sign as to where my friends are. I just want to know they're okay. They can be avoiding me—I can live with that—but just let me know they're okay. I'm so scared that some maniac killed them." Mac was crying at this point, his emotions worn on the sleeve for all, or in this case God, to see, "I couldn't live with myself knowing they were dead and I wasn't there with them to go down with the ship. Not a literal ship, that is—unless they were taking a ship to go somewhere!"

Wiping the tear tracks with his hoodie sleeves, he allowed a sob to wrack his body. Mac had worked himself into a tizzy, imagining his friends dying and felt a boulder-heavy weight on his shoulders that he couldn't quite place.

"Please, God. I know I'm the last person who deserves a miracle, but if you can, please protect my friends in whatever they're doing, alive or dead."

His phone buzzed and he practically jumped to see it, relieved to see it was a voicemail from Dennis. Maybe Dennis did care, after all.

Mac never even stopped to consider why he had never received a call, only an ominous voicemail, before pressing play and lifting his phone to his ear excitedly.

"Hey, Mac," Dennis' voice rang through, hoarse as he sniffled into the phone's microphone. He had expected to hear a snide retort about all the messages he had been leaving the group, but a message from him was better than none, right? "I really fucking miss you. W-we all do. I have a therapist now a-and she recommended I send you these messages as a therapy tool, but this is only making how much I miss you worse." Dennis' voice broke as he openly sobbed. Mac had only heard his best friend cry once before and hearing it again broke his heart.

He didn't quite understand what he had been going on about, but he understood that they weren't coming back. Mac would never see them again.

"No one's dealing with this well, man. Charlie ran away and I'm scared-I'm scared he's gonna hurt himself." Oh. Dennis paused for a while, attempting to compose himself, but the silence only made him cry more, "it's so hard to hold a conversation by yourself, Mac. The apartment feels so big with you not here and I feel like I'm going crazy. I just keep making jokes like you're going to answer me." Oh no.

Mac was beginning to clock the situation, feeling a lump rise in his throat. He was going to be sick.

"I know this is selfish, but I wish I hadn't been the one to find you. The image of you j-just hanging there is just...I don't even know, dude. I see it everytime I close my eyes and I can't sleep anymore."

Another pregnant pause passed.

"It's a weird feeling to be mentioned by name in a suicide note, honestly. I never even realized how much of what I said got to you." Dennis had stopped crying, still sniffling, but not sobbing like before. He wasn't sure he liked this version of Dennis better. The clarity and directness scared Mac terribly and the bile rose in his throat, threatening to spill into his mouth. "We loved you, though, Mac. We all did."

He wanted to say that he loved them back, but he knew there was no use. He was dead and the dead can't communicate.

Quietly, Dennis spoke again, "I did."

And that was it. The voicemail ended, leaving Mac feeling empty inside.

He was the one who was never coming back.

Mac would never see them again.