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The pill bottle felt steady in his hands. Most people talked about moments like this saying their hands were shaking and they were so, so scared. Gary’s hands never shook. It almost made him feel like he was faking it. He didn’t even have it in him to cry anymore. How pathetic is it to pretend to be depressed but you can’t even cry about it?
He took his time counting out the exact number of pills it’d take to overdose. His roommate probably wouldn’t be back soon. Man, fuck his roommate. He hated Pete because Pete was everything he’d ever been told was unacceptable by his family- he was loud, emotional, gentle, not to mentioned Black and queer, and yet he got everything Gary had ever wanted, and the boy had a front row seat to watch Pete succeed. It wasn’t fair.
That wasn’t why he was going to kill himself. Of course it wasn’t Pete’s fault. But watching as these tight-knit friendships formed right in front of his eyes wasn’t helping. Especially not when he’d stayed the same. He’d tried so hard to change when he went to college. He’d sunk to debt so deep that he couldn’t see his ankles just to reinvent himself! He’d be repaying that dumbass decision til the day he died and yet nothing changed. Nothings new. Nothings different. He’s still too angry. He’s still too shy. He’s still no one’s number one. Nobody asks for his number. His entire Bio class has a group chat that he’s not in, but no one ever approaches him about it. Gary sits alone in class, struggles to do his work, but can never ask for help because they’re all busy in their clubs and their parties that he’s not invited to.
Gary is alone. Gary won’t be missed. Gary has no future and never has - fuck, why was he stupid enough to think he had a future in the arts?!?!? Photography?!?? God, he felt fucking stupid. Which he probably was. He knows he’s not right in the head but that’s all it is. He’s not one of those neurodivergent people, he doesn’t have an excuse for his behavior other than being wrong. There’s something evil inside of Gary Barkovitch that’s finally going to be killed. He should’ve done this back in Alabama. Could’ve saved his family a lotta trouble, except it would’ve killed his Meemaw to see.
Meemaws dead now, though. No one left to hold on to.
Garys been moving slower since that day. He was at school but he still made some efforts to visit her in the hospital. He feels sick when he passes the nursing classes and gets a whiff of those chemicals and he can’t watch movies with hospital scenes anymore. What a fucking pussy. He’s not the one who sat up with her every night. He’s not the one who lived in a hotel just to be close to her. He doesn’t get to be traumatized by her death. He didn’t see the heart rate fall and fall until it became a flatline! Yet he’s still shaken and he’s still slower these days and there’s probably a myriad of other behavioral issues tied to seeing that skeleton of a woman with tubes sticking outta every surface struggling down the hall as doctors cooed and celebrated the fact she could do things she’d been able to do with ease not 2 months earlier. But Gary Barkovitch is not neurodivergent. He is not traumatized. He is simple Wrong.
So he needs to make things Right by killing himself. He sets the water bottle onto the counter, next to the stack of pills. Oh, come on, Gary. Don’t be a coward now. He places another few painkillers in the pile. Considering they’re a murder weapon, he doubts Pete’ll want them anymore, but he makes sure to leave some behind. Don’t wanna be too big of a burden when he goes. Overdosing was the cleanest method, and besides, Gary had heard it hurt less. He’d never been one to self-harm - because self-harm was only cutting or burning, leaving a mark on the skin as a permanent reminder of his own self hatred. The slapping didn’t count. The biting, either, though sometimes that was only because he was overwhelmed. Not taking care of himself, or the verbal abuse inside his own mind, or the way he made himself watch whenever he was being excluded from a gathering were probably forms of mental self-harm, but Gary didn’t believe in such a thing, so they were simply bad habits.
Should he write a note? Would anyone bother to read it? Would anyone rush into the room, clutch his body and cry “WHY?!?!?” fruitlessly into the sky? No. Probably not. He feels like he still should, though, in case anyone gets curious. Maybe the girls upstairs’ll want it for their true crime podcast.
Oh, fuck off with that. No one cares. NO ONE CARES. NO ONE.
He’s finally crying. What a pussy. Death doesn’t scare you, but being left out makes you sad? Fucking pussy. Stupid fuck. Just kill yourself already.
He gasps for air, furiously palming at his eyes to stop, stop, STOP. He flips over a paper on his desk anyways, pulls out a pen and scribbles out, “No one should miss me. I am and always was a horrible person.” before crumpling it up. That sounds too stupid. Like he’s guilt tripping people after his own death. The problem with having depressing thoughts is that they never feel sincere. Everyone’s already done the whole “torture soul” routine a dozen times before he was even born. Nothing he says feels original anymore, every tortured sentiment was already said and felt a thousand times stronger by someone else. There’s no need to write a note because he can’t write a note that hasn’t already been written.
He can’t chicken out now. He shoved the pills into his mouth, opens the water bottle and slugs down a mouthful. He has to do it in three parts, there’s so many pills. Hopefully that means they’ll work.
He doesn’t know how long they’ll take to kick in. What now? Put on some music? Do some homework? There’s no point. He’ll be dead soon enough. Should he try to write a note still? No, already been over that. He laughs. How stupid is this?!? He’s just sitting around, waiting to die, and he’s bored. He’s fucking bored. He laughs and then he cries because he’s bored and he’s about to die and he’s gonna die bored. He never got to do anything fun or exciting, he never got to live out his dreams and he’s gonna die bored. He barely tried anything new - there’s so much he should’ve tried! He could’ve talked to that weird girl in English. He could’ve apologized to Pete for being a dick, and maybe he would’ve joined the friend group. He could’ve tried therapy at least once. But no. Now he’s dead.
He tells himself it wouldn’t have mattered anyways. Because he is Wrong and this is Right.
The rooms looking hazy now. He wonders if it’s because he’s crying or because the pills are working.
The last thing he sees is the door beginning to open. Shit. Why didn’t he lock it?