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The weekend came and, with it, a much-needed respite from the stress of his new job.
Being away from responsibilities for a few days should have been a relief. Pleasurable, even. Most of his coworkers were probably spending the day out of the house, catching up on errands or enjoying time with friends and family. The weekend was supposedly something to look forward to, a thought to keep in mind while slogging through long hours at work, a time to make plans to relax and have fun. But as Adachi lay practically motionless in bed, the clock informing him it was late afternoon, it became evident that the familiar paralysis of inertia had already decided his plans for him.
This plan hardly deviated from his usual weekend schedule.
Having slept late, his stomach was growling loudly. Had he lived with anybody else, it would have been obnoxious and surely earned at least a passing comment. Adachi liked to imagine this comment would be one of concern, preceding a warm, filling meal brought to his bedside by a comforting presence—ideally that of a woman. She would scold him for not taking better care of himself, just as his parents never did and just as he knew he should be doing himself. She would gaze into his eyes with genuine affection, actually acknowledging and appreciating his existence rather than simply tolerating it, and plant a soft kiss on his cheek before sitting down next to him and bringing a bite of food to his mouth. He would happily sit up, inch closer to her, and scarf down whatever delicious creation she had prepared just for him.
Yet, Adachi’s apartment remained empty, save for his limp, aching body that was seemingly inseparable from the bedsheets. A heavy lead weight felt as if it rested on top of him, making each shallow breath feel laborious. He could blame it on fatigue, but he knew better.
Every inhale and exhale served as a subtle reminder of the fact that he was still here, detached from feeling much of anything until the void became unbearable, and suddenly he could feel everything and nothing, all at once. Still wandering aimlessly with no direction forward, going through the motions of daily life for no purpose but necessity. How he was feeling was paradoxical in theory; the vast majority of people would argue it was impossible to be both numb and in pain. But emptiness carried its own sort of torture and it was splitting him from the inside out, carving through his being until there was nothing left but a hollow gap between who he once was and who he had become: a fraction of his former self, whoever that may have been.
Adachi rolled over to face the wall, curling the edge of his pillow up to shield his eyes. Light was filtering in through closed curtains and doing no favors for the rapidly-developing throbbing in his head. He stayed there a while, teeth gritted and stomach rumbling, attempting to drown out his thoughts by focusing on the physical rather than mental discomfort. Given his ever-present numbness, both should have been welcomed. Nonetheless, the sensations eventually became too much to bear and he reluctantly slid out of bed in search of a remedy.
What a pathetic coward you are, he thought.
Leaving the bed for the first time that day brought with it a tightness in his back and the sound of cracking joints. His legs had cramped while laying there for so long and they were stiff as he trudged towards his bathroom in a reluctant stupor, socks dragging across the hardwood floor. When he entered the room and flicked on the lights, their abrasive glow nearly blinded him. Adachi couldn’t find it within himself to curse or grumble about this, not even in a knee-jerk reaction. Instead, he remained relatively silent in response to the sudden shift in brightness, lacking the necessary energy to express annoyance. A grimace was all that was visible to convey his discomfort.
While his squinting eyes continued to adjust, he swung open the mirror over his sink, obstructing part of the light as he reached into the medicine cabinet to grab some ibuprofen. The bottle was already half empty, despite having been purchased not even a week prior to ease his increasingly-frequent work-induced headaches. It rattled with the sound of pills as he fumbled to unscrew the cap. He shook two pills into his hand and swiftly swallowed them dry, only slightly wincing as they scratched his throat on the way down.
Since transferring, he had grown accustomed to popping them when necessary, which, these days, was often. It had started with headaches from work but had evolved into a bit of a habit by this point. Whether or not it was just the placebo effect, he frequently felt as if they blunted the emotional distress as well, making him feel a bit more equipped to deal with the trials of daily life. Perhaps the pills only contributed to an illusion of agency over his emotions, and he was simply imagining things: a perceived sense of control brought on by desperation for anything to ease his agony. In fact, this was more than likely—it was almost guaranteed. Over-the-counter pain relief was far from psychotropic medication.
However, regardless of whether his observations held any genuine validity, there were worse drugs he could have been taking, and more harmful coping mechanisms he could have been employing. And with the persistent demands of a miserable, thankless job, taking them regularly could be seen as somewhat of a preventative measure: a preemptive strike against the frustration sure to come.
Ironically enough, though, the pain was even more severe at this moment than it had been all week. The intensity of his headache was further heightened by the nauseating pangs in his stomach from having had nothing to eat for over 36 hours. A simple solution would have been to fix himself something for lunch (or would that be dinner?), but his apartment was running low on groceries and he was running low on energy. That was just fine though. Adachi didn’t feel like eating anyway. So, instead, he treated the symptom rather than the root cause of his suffering.
It was much easier that way.
He returned the pill bottle to its shelf and shut the medicine cabinet door, pulling the mirror on it back into view. Heavy undereye bags and unkempt hair stared back at him. He ran a hand through some strands in the front, noticing they had grown since whenever he had last gotten a haircut. A trim would have to wait until another weekend. Better yet, maybe he’d even teach himself how to cut his own hair. It would save time, money, and energy, all of which had become valuable commodities in the past few years. It turned out, adult life was not all it was cracked up to be.
The more he looked into the mirror, the worse he looked. The pallor of his skin was only further emphasized by the harsh lighting overhead, making him appear as lifeless as he felt. No one had ever told him how soulsucking adulthood would be. A stable job that kept one busy was glorified, and for a while, that ideal had been enough to keep him going. Start a career, start a marriage, start a family, live the rest of your days satisfied, all that seemingly fun and attainable stuff. Except none of that bullshit had proven true. Granted, Adachi had only been able to fulfill one of those aspects, but even that ended in disaster, his life wasted on a fruitless attempt at a future that had never been his to begin with. It felt sickeningly naive to imagine a time when he was invigorated by those promises society dangled like a carrot in front of him, but even more sickening to contrast that childhood dream with where he was now: lonely, bitter, socially stunted, and trapped in a job he no longer loved.
Despite having dedicated his whole life to academics, the supposed key to success, there was nothing to show for this effort in his career. Lies… he had been fed nothing but lies, designed to supply the masses with a false sense of control over their own destiny. At the end of the day, none of this mattered in the real world. Idiots with a fraction of his knowledge could rise up in the ranks simply by being personable and charming, playing the social game and winning. Knowing how and when to say the right thing, how and when to act a certain way, took people way farther than intellect ever could. His focus had been misplaced, and now his life was nothing but a cruel joke. A complete failure. Even without the demotion, these individuals with an innate charisma would have eventually surpassed him anyway. Hell, people like that never would have been demoted in the first place. Why even try when effort isn’t what’s rewarded and the odds are stacked against you from the beginning?
Adachi leaned over the sink, his knuckles white as he gripped its edge. With nausea setting in from the pain in his stomach and his headache now bordering on intolerable, it was becoming clear that whatever dosage he had taken was clearly not doing the trick. As all these thoughts swam around in his head, bombarding him with harsh truths he wanted nothing more than to ignore, his threshold for pain became that much lower. He reached for the medicine cabinet again, yanking it open, and dispensed two more pills into his hand. Two more couldn’t hurt. They went down about as smoothly as the first two but he hardly noticed. Instead, he was clutching the bottle, the cap still off, and peering into it to examine its contents. Two more likely wouldn’t do any sort of damage, but how much would? Adachi wondered this in casual curiosity as he counted the remaining pills he could see. The bottle was only half full but still held a fairly decent amount of them.
What would happen, theoretically, if I swallowed them all? he wondered absentmindedly. Surely he would need water at that point, just to make them go down more smoothly. Swallowing that many would likely be a chore either way, but water would help.
How long would it take for them to take effect? What effects would they bring? Can you overdose on ibuprofen?
His mind ran through a litany of morbid questions that should have startled him, but he remained stoic, absorbed in his thoughts. Time seemed to slow as he blocked out the world for the sake of his own hypothetical scenario. Before long, he was reflexively reaching for a cup on his sink and turning on the tap. He placed it under the faucet. The cup grew heavier in his hand as it became increasingly full. As he waited, another question came to mind.
How long would it take to die?
This one snapped him out of his thoughts. The water was running over now, his hand still under the faucet, frozen in place. The piercing cold temperature on his skin was bringing him back to reality, making him aware of what he had been about to do. And he knew what he had been about to do. He knew all too well.
Adachi sighed, emptied the full cup into the sink, and shut off the water. He was surprised to find that his heart was racing. Wasn’t this what he wanted? His thoughts suggested yes, but his actions said otherwise. The discrepancy was contradictory. Cowardly. The more he dwelled on it, the more he wanted to throw up. Both the action he had almost mindlessly attempted, as well as the inability to go through with it, screamed of cowardice. Because that’s what he was. A coward.
In an act of impulsivity, he tipped the open bottle upside down and dumped the rest of the pills into the toilet. He pulled the handle to flush and left the bathroom in haste, nearly smacking into the medicine cabinet door on the way out.
He returned shortly after to vomit. The closest he could get was the sink before bile and acid forced their way up from his stomach, burning his esophagus on the way out.
Adachi somehow felt emptier.
Resolving to repair at least one facet of his dead-end life, Adachi stopped by Junes the following Monday and picked up some food. Instant ramen, cheap produce, and a pack of beer had set him back financially, but at least he was making an effort to eat more regularly. His budget on his previous salary would have been more generous, but he didn’t delude himself into thinking he could have made anything more elaborate for himself then either. Having never learned to cook, his options were limited to what was convenient and difficult to screw up. City salary or not, the best thing that could be said about his meals was that they were edible. Nonetheless, he always felt just a bit better when he wasn’t starving.
The stress of work remained constant, but the headaches subsided on the rare occasion he managed to take proper care of himself. This was a much tougher task than it should have been, and his struggles with it did little to counter the idea that he was deficient in even the most basic areas of functioning. It was yet another line of evidence in a string of confirmations that he was failing at life—because having no social skills, no girlfriend, and no shot at recovering the career success he sacrificed everything to pursue apparently wasn’t enough.
Adjusting to this new job he resented proved a lot easier when he did what he could to distract himself from it, so his days frequently consisted of slacking off, both in and out of the station. Doing so, in either location, had the net result of putting him at risk of getting fired. Adachi realized this, and every time he elected to avoid his work, he recognized that it could very well not be his work for much longer. He was only a few weeks into his new position in Inaba and he wasn’t exactly making a stellar impression. By now, everyone thought they knew him and no one took him seriously. They seemed convinced of his incompetence, and treated him like the rookie they perceived him to be. What they failed to consider was that it was apathy, not ineptitude, that underlied his poor performance. Adachi had reached the peak of his career and subsequently plummeted. There wasn’t much left for him anymore, least of all the incentive to keep trying.
Naturally, this lack of focus at work didn’t make him very popular with his coworkers. Between his slacker attitude and limited contact with others beyond what was necessary, it was unlikely anyone would vouch for him to keep his job should it ever be at stake. No one would be easier to fire than the bumbling, reclusive loser on the force.
And he knew that’s how they felt about him; it was far more difficult to ignore than it was to notice. Sometimes their judgment was subtle, evident from their sideways glances, silence, or complete lack of attention to him. Other times, it was overt, stated plainly as if it were simply common sense. All times, it made him that much more aware he was an outsider.
“You sure he’s from Tokyo? How the hell did he ever make it in the city?”
“He didn’t.”
“Right. It shows.”
The derisive commentary had been stuck in his head on a loop since he first overheard it. The two officers had made no attempt to lower their voices, as if content for the whole station to hear. Maybe they had been. Maybe that was even their goal. Adachi couldn’t decide what stung more—the gossip or the fact that he was being gossiped about at all. It was petty office shit-talking. Nothing more. It shouldn’t have gotten to him, but here he was, alone at home on a Sunday night, opening a can of beer to pretend he hadn’t heard it.
If only for a little while.
Who gives a fuck what they think, anyway? What do they know?
He sat cross-legged by the television, seven cans lined up on a table in front of him. The pitch black screen showed nothing but his reflection, bringing him back to the present. He wore a vacant stare, the same he always wore in private, when he could drop the façade. It bore into his mind, where it registered just how hollow he still felt. It was hard to remember a time when his default expression was any different.
At some point in his life, Adachi decided it was safer for the world to only see one side of him. He couldn’t quite pinpoint when it had happened, or how long he’d been struggling to hide this chronic emptiness with a façade of whimsy, but recent events were testing his ability to stifle the pain. Nowadays, he’d sometimes question if he knew himself anymore at all. Was there any substance below the surface, or was it all just a gaping void covered up with artificiality? Beyond the falsities, beyond the internal black hole that struggled to consume him, what remained? His identity felt fractured, incomplete, but beneath his act remained the same broken man he had come to know and loathe, and never was this more evident than in solitude. Pretending to be fine was exhausting. The contrast between his feigned smile and this distant gaze was alarmingly significant (he played his part well), but real emotional pain festered within, and peered through even the widest of grins or heartiest of laughs.
Not that anyone had ever cared to notice.
He scowled at the thought, one side of his mouth pulled taut with tension, and reached for his first beer. Its tab popped open and he took a sip. The drink fizzed on his tongue and he gulped it down before the acidity could linger too long. Adachi had never been much of a drinker. Drinking just hadn’t been compatible with his focus on his studies. Maybe if he’d partied alongside his peers at the academy he would have developed a greater appreciation for the taste of beer, but he still refused to believe anyone drank it for the flavor. So far, the couple of times that Dojima had dragged him out to the pub on weekends had helped somewhat, but even then, where a desire for its taste ended and a desire for its effects began was unclear.
It really didn’t matter. The results were the same regardless.
Two cans were now empty: he didn’t remember finishing the first or even the second, but they were gone now. A warm sensation was already beginning to envelop him, his cheeks flushed and mind clouding over with comfort. Anxieties and grievances started to quiet down a little bit, a pleasant sensation of tipsiness taking their place. One perk of his relative inexperience with drinking was how little alcohol it took to get him drunk and how quickly he could expect to get there. The taste of alcohol was something he could take or leave, but the feeling was incredible. Somehow, life was more bearable when he was buzzed.
Without thinking, he reached for a third can, spurred on by the bliss quickly setting in. He chugged this one deliberately, then crumpled it and threw it across the room in a minor act of rebellion. It felt nice to make a mess. Growing up, his parents had always insisted that he keep his room spotless, always suggested it helped with discipline or some stupid shit like that. Perhaps they had been right, or perhaps their emphasis on cultivating discipline had left him no choice but to develop it anyway. Whatever the reason, it had done him more harm than good. The obsessive, singular focus on success that they instilled in him was to blame for his emptiness, lack of social skills, and lifelong lack of friends. All his efforts to control the outcome of his future through work ethic had been to the detriment of his integration into society. Now, as the cruel irony of his career’s demise stared him in the face, he was starting to realize all this work had been in vain, his singular focus on academics a waste of time. He had done everything right and still lost. Life wasn’t fair, and effort alone wasn’t what was rewarded—these were the harsh realities of adulthood and they hurt. They hurt a lot. But they hurt even more with no one to turn to who understood.
Set adrift with no support system to lean on, he suffered in silence.
Independence had always been part of his plan— loneliness had not. A little loneliness after moving to a new place would have been natural. Not knowing anyone in a new location and having to start from scratch socially would have been natural. But a social life was never something he’d been afforded to begin with, and isolation was all he’d ever known. Contrary to his attempts at rationalizing, it didn’t get easier the more he got used to it. If anything, it got worse. The effects were cumulative and utterly suffocating. Some part of him was vaguely aware of this, and he wasn’t nearly drunk enough to be thinking of it right now.
Five drinks in and Adachi’s head began to feel dizzy. A pacifying sense of calm washed over him as the room seemed to spin. The effects of drinking five cans in rapid succession were starting to hit him. He rested the palms of his hands on the floor and leaned back on them, steadying himself while his head clouded over in a haze and his eyelids grew warm and heavy. Being drunk felt like being numb to pain but also receptive to comfort. It was a warmth he was unfamiliar with, and the closest he had come to feeling happy in the past few months. It wasn’t lost on him how pathetic this was, but by now, he was too drunk and desperate to care.
A little while and two additional drinks later, Adachi’s arms began to grow weak from propping himself up, and he fell backwards, stomach sloshing as he collapsed onto the floor. His descent was disorienting, all control over his body lost in that moment before clumsily smacking into dense wood. Whatever pain he would have ordinarily experienced took longer to register and felt blunted when it did. His whole body was heavy, his mind delirious. All he could focus on was the dull ache in his elbows, which would likely be bruised the next day after having borne the brunt of his fall. He struggled to keep down the contents of his stomach as he lay flat on his back, staring up at the blurry ceiling tiles. After some time spent just lying there, Adachi mustered what little energy he had to shift across the floor, then rolled onto his side to face the television.
This adjustment gave him some special type of alcohol-induced motion sickness, as if being as drunk as he was then wasn’t nauseating enough. Waves of dizziness crashed over him, like a powerful current at high tide. He clutched the floor as his surroundings spun in and out of focus. His vision was becoming increasingly obscured by drooping eyelids, but out of the corner of his eye, he could spot a can just briefly before knocking it over, the remainder of its contents drenching an area of floor beside him. Ignoring the spill, his shaky hand fumbled to grab the TV remote, grasping to pick it up and stabbing his thumb in the familiar direction of the power button. It flickered to life and the room filled with light and sound, comforting distractions from how awful he was starting to feel. The remote clattered to the floor when he withdrew his arm, clutching it to his chest as he curled up in a tired, hazy ball.
He fell asleep to the sound of conversation.
Adachi awoke to a cacophony of lively dialogue interspersed with the distant sound of birds. The contrast between real life and the digital world was jarring, bringing him back to the circumstances he had fought so desperately to escape not even 24 hours prior. Grounding himself proved overwhelming as a barrage of stimuli flooded his senses, and his eyes, sore from having never removed his contacts, took in the space around him. Not even bothering to check for the remote, he reached up to the television and shut it off. Its silence was an improvement, but he slumped back onto the floor immediately after, attempting to block out all other reminders of his consciousness. The continued sound of birds chirping outside made this near impossible, leaving him to only guess how late it was. He closed his eyes and covered his ears with his hands, fully intending to fall back asleep, before it hit him.
It was Monday.
Shit.
A throbbing sensation so intense it could have been audible flooded his head when he jolted upright. He scrambled to his feet as his head pulsed and the room swirled around him. The seemingly innocuous action felt like a chore, his heart beating out of his chest and his groggy mind struggling to focus. The night before was all a blur by now, bits and pieces missing from his recollection of events. Yet, despite the gaps in his memory, there was no question as to what had happened. Empty beer cans littered the floor around him and he kicked one out of his way as he stumbled towards the corner of his room between the television and the foot of his bed. His work clothes lay in a heap and he snatched them up in haste. They’d been there since Friday, when they had been destined for the wash, but there’d be no time for that. Whatever concept of time he might have had was distorted, his mind dealing with the aftermath of being so thoroughly intoxicated, but he had a sickening, sinking feeling he had very little of it to spare.
Adachi changed in even greater haste, nearly tripping over the legs of his slacks as he pulled them on and fastened them. Little attention was paid to the buttoning of his dress shirt—it could have been buttoned askew for all he could tell—before he scooped up his suit jacket, slung his tie and belt over his shoulder, and dove towards the phone charging on his bed. When he opened it, his stomach sank. He tossed his jacket aside, minimizing distractions to give his full attention to the issue in front of him. Three missed calls from Dojima-san. Checking the time wasn’t necessary when that provided indication enough that he was more than a little late, but he did anyway. He was late all right—nearly two and a half hours late, to be exact. It would be a miracle if he wasn’t fired after this.
And so what if he was fired?
Would that really be that bad?
Lethargy muddied his mind and body, yet his legs strode forward on autopilot. It was mindless. Monotonous. Routine.
It was the rest of his life.
Adachi usually did what he could to ignore this fact, but this was a temporary solution, at best. Ignoring the sad reality of his life had worked the night before but now that he was sober again, ignoring it was becoming increasingly difficult. Long-gone was the pleasant buzz that had quieted his thoughts. It was as if the floodgates had opened, all negativity that had been siphoned away coming back full force. In fact, he felt worse, almost like the relief he had felt before had drawn from a limited supply of mental stability for the day that was continuing to dwindle. The internal void alcohol had filled was creeping back into focus, looming over him like a dark cloud. Now, as the paralyzing emptiness of depression returned, the implications of his future were inescapable. With his emotional health taking a rapid nosedive, far past the ordinary numbness and deep into a treacherous territory of absolute apathy, he was no longer able to avoid the futility of it all. It had been stupid of him to pretend he ever could.
Every day was the same. Every day, he dragged himself out of bed, wandered in a haze until he found himself at the station, watched the clock until the day was over, and eventually returned home, only to absorb himself in mindless entertainment that distracted from the fact that he would have to do all this again. Over and over and over and over. No end in sight, no incentive to keep going. Just the same excruciating loop of tedious, trivial events trapping him in a cycle of suffering, and the escapism he used as a coping mechanism that had never come close to erasing his pain.
Maybe there were worse outcomes than getting fired.
Nonetheless, Adachi’s steps continued to trace a well-worn path toward the bathroom to wash up and get ready to go. While walking, he put on his tie and looped it through haphazardly. By the time he was face-to-face with his reflection, he could tell that his tie was lop-sided, and made an effort to straighten it. After messing with fixing it, to no avail, he gave up in favor of securing his belt around his waist and adjusting how his shirt was tucked in. He could only bring himself to care so much and settled for good enough. The concept had been foreign to him in previous years but was simply standard now. The little things were meaningless. Everything felt meaningless.
All this stupid attention to detail and for what?
Nothing was going to change his coworkers’ opinion of him. Nothing was going to get him his old job back. Nothing was ever going to fix the fact that he was doomed to live a life of mediocrity, constantly falling short, never succeeding professionally or interpersonally or even just at simply existing. The real world, where grades and time spent studying and effort took a backseat to talent and charisma and luck, was never going to give a shit about someone like him. So why was he still trying? What was there to try for?
This wasn’t living. Sure, his heart was beating and his lungs were expanding and his brain was functioning, but all that proved nothing other than the fact that he was alive. That was the bare minimum. Anyone could do that. Living was different. Living implied satisfaction with one’s life. It implied gratitude, fulfillment, or whatever the hell the buzzword of the day was to describe what Adachi wasn’t sure he had ever truly felt in his life. It implied something unattainable that everyone seemed lucky enough to have found but him, their existences alight with moments of sheer joy that would become memories to cherish forever. These people had friends, family, coworkers, and other bonds that made being alive worth the hassle. Their lives held meaning, to themselves and to others. Adachi could only wonder how that might have felt.
The only reason anyone had even noticed he was missing that morning was because he had a job to do. Not because they missed him or anything clichéd like that. Genuine bonds where people actually cared for one another were something he’d only seen on TV, and the closest person he had to a friend was just a superior extending kindness out of pity when he wasn’t berating him for his poor performance. Adachi’s absence probably didn’t even have any impact in the grand scheme of things anyway—it’s not like he was a particularly valuable asset to the team. And if words were anything to go by, the majority of the station had probably breathed a sigh of relief when he hadn’t come in. After all, they had a reason to resent him. All he did was take up space, make more work for his co-workers with half-assed attempts at doing his job because he never exerted any more effort than necessary and yet still fell short of that. He was dead weight, a liability. Worthless.
No one would miss him if he was gone.
And in a way, he felt like he already was. An empty vessel coasting through existence as life happened to him was the most generous description he could think of for himself. Being an active participant in his future seemed like an option long gone, assuming he’d ever had that privilege to begin with. Whatever efforts he’d made in the past to secure a good life felt wasted now as he meandered his way through days that bled together, numbness replacing anything that had previously resembled joy. Even his ability to feel sadness was blunted, every depressing thought and occurrence only affecting him so much when he was already so low. At the bottom of this dark hole he’d dug for himself and been pushed into by fate, he sat, clutching his legs to his chest and burying his face in his knees. Wanting to cry but being incapable of shedding tears. Hoping for a way out but looking up and realizing he had fallen too far, for far too long, to ever have a fighting chance of crawling his way out. It’s people like him society would leave to rot anyway. He couldn’t say he’d mind that.
Was life always going to be this goddamn tiring?
Was this suffocating void all he’d be able to experience for the rest of his years?
The thought was terrifying, just enough so that it sent a chill right through him. It was the strongest emotion he’d felt in a while. He swallowed hard and tried to steady his shallow breath. The effects of the alcohol were reversed now that it had worn off in his system, and his heart was beating faster and mind racing more so than usual because of it. It was not uncommon for him to be on edge when hungover—it was a normal biological, chemical response—but whatever the hell he was experiencing now went beyond that. His hangover-induced rapid heart rate paired with an onslaught of negative thoughts to fuel a downward spiral he didn’t know how to get out of. Regret towards last night’s actions emerged amidst those thoughts, but the hopelessness of his situation almost canceled it out. He did what he had to do to ignore unbearable emptiness. If he could go back and do things again, he’d choose the same decision every time. His life was headed straight to shit anyway. What difference did a little more self-destruction to cope with the pain make?
Adachi was jolted from his thoughts when his burning eyes started to water. They were bloodshot, likely from both the alcohol and the contacts he’d slept in. He worked to remove them, shaky hands fumbling at tear-stricken eyes, and settled for wearing his glasses instead, grabbing them from the edge of the sink.
Right next to his toothbrush, toothpaste… and razor.
Everything came back into focus when he shoved the glasses onto his face, but he stared at the corner he had grabbed them from, his mind spiraling, until his eyes went blurry again. It was tempting but… something kept him paralyzed. Adachi would have been lying if he’d claimed he hadn’t thought about it before. Putting an end to everything was a pathetic, cowardly way out, but every passing day made the option increasingly alluring. Nonetheless, he’d never been able to muster the courage to consider it seriously.
But the circumstances were right and he was feeling abysmal and his thoughts just wouldn’t shut up and his self-control was non-existent and—
He was picking it up and removing the blade.
Adachi’s hands were trembling, and he pricked his thumb and forefinger on it as he pulled it loose. The shallow cuts elicited a sharp intake of air as he winced, and he bit his fingers in a reflexive response to stop the bleeding. The ironic juxtaposition of his low pain tolerance and what he planned to do with the blade shortly was not lost on him and he laughed, a dry, mirthless sound that got caught in his chest.
In an attempt to calm his nerves, he assured himself this really wouldn’t change that much. He’d been existing in this state of nothingness for so long he might as well have already been dead. Sure, it would hurt—and that itself was most terrifying; too bad he couldn’t just use his gun to off himself—but it would be over soon after, which was more than he could say about his life if he continued on until old age. Shit, he couldn’t begin to imagine living that long. Yes, this was for the best. It would be over before he knew it, or so he hoped.
His other hand fumbled with undoing the button on his shirt sleeve, then rolled it up to his elbow. Smooth, pale skin with bright blue veins showing through became exposed. Adachi felt dizzy as he brought the sharp object in his hand closer to flesh. Physically, he was present, but mentally, he was disconnecting from his surroundings. Cold metal brought to skin complicated this.
Just fucking do it already.
He bit his lip in anguish and scrunched his eyes shut. Holding his breath, he swiped the blade across his wrist lightly until skin was pierced and blood was drawn.
Cut deeper than that, dumbass. God you can’t do anything right, can you?
Tears streamed down his face and snot dripped from his nose. Every breath he attempted came out choked, his chest heaving to keep up with his pounding heart. After a few minutes of just standing, staring, trying to will himself to go through with it, he heard his cell phone ring in the other room. The sound, though faint, startled him, and he jumped when he heard it. The phone continued to ring in the background as he struggled to redirect his focus. It was probably just another call from Dojima-san, wondering where he was. If all went according to plan, he’d get his answer eventually. Maybe he’d even feel guilty for never anticipating and preventing this.
Adachi wondered how long it would take for someone to come looking for him, only to find just a body. A day? A couple of days? A week?
Would anyone worry?
Would anyone actually care?
Without thinking, he scraped the blade against skin again, a little deeper this time.
Fuck fuck fuck fuck, that hurt.
That’s kinda the point, you asshole. Keep going.
And so, he pressed even deeper into his skin, his face contorted in pain and his mind rebelling against him in some weak attempt at self-preservation. He pressed as deep as he could until he couldn’t anymore, and collapsed against the wall behind him in defeat. The bloodied blade fell to the ground by his feet and his body went limp, sliding down to the floor. By now, the shirt sleeve he’d rolled up had fallen back to his wrist, where it was stained red. He’d need to change before heading into work. Just like that, his mind was back to mundanities, his thoughts returning to the practical and pulling him out of fantasy. It hurt: the realization that he was still here and the arm he’d struck in an attempt to change that. Everything hurt. The pain was an almost welcome reprieve from his enduring numbness, but somehow, neither felt right. He didn’t want to feel anything. He didn’t want to be here anymore.
Adachi undid his tie and unbuttoned his bloody shirt, then threw both onto the bathroom floor with as much force as his weak arm could manage. He ripped off his glasses and tossed them aside as well, and the world around him became fuzzy again. His wrist throbbed as it continued to bleed and he stared at the sink in shock as he attempted to ride the wave of pain.
You stupid piece of shit. There is no escape from this pain. Nice try, though.
Curling his legs to his chest and burying his face in his knees, he sobbed, loudly, uncontrollably, until he was too tired to make any sound at all.
This dark hole was a place he’d be stuck in forever.
“You’re late. I’ve been trying to reach you all morning.”
Dojima’s greeting was cold, laced with disapproval and exasperation.
“Uh, yeah… sorry about that, sir. Just overslept.” Adachi forced a nervous chuckle, a strained smile plastered on his face in apology. As he scratched the back of his neck out of sheepishness, the fabric of his dress shirt rubbed at open wounds. “Won’t happen again, sir.” He fought the urge to wince when he lowered his arm, biting his lip to stifle the pain.
“Get to work.”