❝In which a celebrity dials a random number in hope of finding one last thing to make him smile before he commits suicide at the end of the month.❞
"I'm going to commit suicide in one months time."
"I think you have the wrong number."
"It can't be t...
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Jaxon, contrary to popular belief, was not just a pretty face. Behind the piece of art that was his facial arrangement was a man. A man who had been warped by the metaphorical crown resting upon his head. A crown that was far too heavy for him to carry. This man, however, could quite easily think for himself. This man had analysed every aspect of the human race since he was a boy and could no longer find anything good about it.
As a child he had been optimistic, always dreaming, always laughing, always looking for ways in which he could form a smile on another's face. He had become obsessed with smiles. He simply couldn't stand the thought of an expressionless face. He found that he simply could not tolerate silence. He found it unbearable. So, he sought to fill the empty silence and the empty faces.
For all of that positivity, as everyone does, he grew up. He began to recognise a fake smile from a real one; he found that sometimes an expressionless face is sometimes the least harmful. It was at this point that he found he could no longer see anything positive. Only negative.
He became an observer. He watched the world tick by: always hating it, never willing to change it.
He assumed that that was what had occurred to his ever crumbling relationship with Shane.
He had known that Shane was suicidal, of course he had. He had known the moment that his genuine smiles had faded into fake ones. Jaxon has known the moment that his good friend's system had begun to corrode. He had known the moment that his old friend was gone. No longer was the boy who laughed at cartoons that were far too young for him. Long gone was the boy who would strum the guitar for his younger sister just because she loved it. In his place was a mechanical smile. His system was rusting. The code inside of his mind was disintegrating.
The signs were obvious.
Jaxon had seen the letters Shane had written to his family. Apologising, for killing himself. Unfinished. Screwed up. Thrown away.
It wasn't that Jaxon didn't care.
Of course he cared.
Once upon a time, that boy had been his best friend. His closest companion. His partner in crime.
He cared.
He just didn't know how to handle it. Jaxon had been an observer of the world for far too long. He had begun to see himself as helpless. He believed that he could do nothing to alter the pages of the book of life. He was convinced that they were all puppets of fate, not able to change their own future. He was certain that Shane could write his own path.
So, he stayed quiet.
Little did he know that that was the worst thing he possibly could have done.
