Work Text:
Dear whomever shall read,
I’m sorry. I’m sorry if you find my body, and I’m sorry if you knew me.
I’m surprised I have friends, let alone ones who put up with me despite how much I isolate myself and wallow in self-pity. I know it’s a form of self sabotage, but it’s just like any other addiction. I was built for loneliness and having people around is withdrawal. They’ll understand, and they’ll peacefully move on.
I firmly believe I won’t do anything noteworthy in at least the next 30 years or so, thus I see no reason to continue striving for purpose. I’ve given all I could, waited for results, and this is the most I’ll get out of my life. I’ll accept that, that’s just what it is.
What reason is there for me to keep pushing, when at every point, it doesn’t matter? I’ll pursue my inevitable and anticlimactic death and get it over with for everybody. I’ll be doing them a favor by wiping out the dead weight that is nothing but a shit stain on this earth; me.
I’m not sure how I’ll do it—my suicide. I don’t think I deserve something painless, but the point is to be rid of me. I’ll see if I can find rope. I know jumping from a height won’t work; I’ll just be horribly injured and suffer further. I’d be even more of a burden than before. Frankly, I’d rather not inconvenience anybody by being confined to a wheelchair. Overall, I just want to die; that’s the point. I’ve considered bloodletting. I’ve also considered shooting myself, overdosing, stabbing myself in the gut, drowning myself, jumping into a moving train. But preferably something that doesn’t have to be cleaned up—or noticed.
I have sucked everyone dry of their patience and sympathy, I can’t blame anyone for being tired of me; I’m tired of me, too. I’ll burn all my belongings so you don’t have to remember me. Burn my body if you find it, and throw away the ashes.
If you read this letter, you know what to do; burn it and throw it away too.
Sincerely, [character name].
“Thank god he titled this ‘final draft’, I thought he was actually gonna kill himself.” Jasper said, oozing with concerned sarcasm as he was done scanning through the document.
Both Ash and Kendrick stood appalled, all three expecting an embarrassing diary or something of the likes. “So, uh, anyone else think he needs to see a therapist?” Ash blurted out.
“What the fuck are you guys doing on my computer?” Speak of the devil and he may appear, after opening the door. Trevor was nothing short of pissed to find those three dorks snooping through his computer. God only knows why they were here in the first place! “Get out, get out—all of you!” He wafted his arms in the air—akin to swatting away pesky bugs—and ran towards the screen panicked. The trio ran out of the room, Kendrick politely closing the door. They only heard dead silence on the other side. A faint “shit,” and many more curses to come in an avalanche.
“We need to leave, like, right now.” Jasper squeaked. Trevor was about to have a meltdown and find every reason to take it out on them.
“Oh my god,” he wheezed, about to erupt into tears “oh my fucking god.” He began to hyperventilate. They know now. They know it’s not a script. They’re gonna contact social workers. They’re gonna contact doctors. He’ll be institutionalized. He’ll leave worse than before. He could only bring himself to sit down in the chair Jasper was once in, and hold his knees to his chest. He was done. He was over. It was all over.