I'm Not Okay [UsUk]

Done

Do not read this chapter if you are sensitive to somewhat graphic descriptions of self harm and suicide.
I want the best for you. Stop reading if you can't deal with these kinds of things. ♡
If you can, you may proceed.
Thank you.

- - -

Hopeless.
Completely worthless.
Pathetic, nothing more than a mess.

No one can love such a person... Right?
What if they all just want me out of sight?

Those voices in my head are right, I've heard them.
What if they all just consider me a burden?

No one wants to hear me speak anyway.
There will not be a single word I'll say.
They all lie about some kind of better day.

I can't hear myself over the screams in my head.
It's become too much, and I'm better off dead.

And if death is the only way out,
Then I'll run to its gates as I shout:

I'm home, I'm home
I'm finally home.

The words of the song were written in swift moves and messy handwriting one by one, tears falling on top of the paper and creating a pool of blue ink over the last verse of the work. But it was still visible to read, and that was the only important thing.

By now, the writer was uncontrollably crying, choking back sobs and on the verge of a total breakdown, gripping the pen tight in his hand and breathing heavily, body shaking entirely.

He was completely done with life.

The house was almost empty. There were only three children in the room across the hall, paralyzed by the moving pictures on the television screen and away from the world, in their own universe.

It was a perfect opportunity.

The boy stood up from the chair he was sitting on shakily, taking the paper he wrote on in his hand and carefully, nicely folding it. Almost falling back down from the momentary loss of vision from standing up too quickly, he managed to keep himself up by holding the edge of the table with one hand.

He took a deep breath.

His gaze flickered over to the only window in the room. It was raining, pouring and it seemed as if it didn't plan on stopping any time soon. He looked around the room. His brother's bed was empty. Slowly, as if he was walking on the edge, he approached the door and opened it in a gentle, but partially anxious manner.

He knew there was no help for him.

Things he had heard about going to therapy weren't appealing, and getting someone to talk to wasn't on his list of options any longer.
In fact, that list shortened to only one thing.

He wasn't going to wait anymore.

Taking hysterical breaths, he was closer to the bathroom with each step. His heart was beating unsteadily, making it more and more difficult to inhale and exhale as it was proper to do. His mind was boiling, so many things gathering in it at once, making it clouded and dark, creating a chain of thoughts that all lead to one final thing.

Nothing was going to stop him.

Quickly checking out of the corner of his eye on the three boys watching television on the couch, he proceeded to enter the bathroom, very silently, closing the door behind himself. And there he was.

He had been thinking about doing this many times throughout his life, but it had never come so clear to him. Today seemed like the perfect day to do it - his closest ones were all busy, out of the house, at work or practice - and he didn't waste any more time.