!!TW: Mentions, implicit or descriptive, of suicide, self-harm, recreational drug use/drug abuse, mental health, blood, death, mental health institutions... I'm not sure what else to include--
Up this high, the city lights feel like fireflies. The breeze is colder and biting, but it's more pleasant.
His body is going in fight or flight mode but his mind feels uncomfortably at ease. One step forward and the rush and the panic would turn to a different kind of adrenaline. He'd still be screaming for help internally but no one would have to know that.
No one would know that.
There's no one to stop him and he's more at ease with that. There's no guilt of making someone worry or sad about him taking his ticket out, one-way. It feels so dark and beautiful to be standing on a literal ledge wondering how it would feel to hit the concrete below. If the world would even stop for a second to recognize yet another dismissal of yet another character in the stage show of life. If there would be some sort of blip on a machine in a simulation, alerting someone that he'll need his understudy to make their appearance in his place.
He doesn't want to question if he's replaceable. Everyone is. He wouldn't exclude himself from that. All it takes it a CTRL + ALT + DEL to reset the system and everyone would be okay again. If it hurts at all, it won't last long. Everyone will move on at some point.
They have to. Just because one life stands still for eternity doesn't mean everyone else's does. Not everyone has the same end of the line. Some are longer and some are shorter. It's just that simple.
He can't tell if the pills are making him think more or if they're helping his thoughts sort themselves out but at least he's not seeing or hearing anything that isn't of his own intention. The silence feels deafening for some reason. Maybe it's because he's always used to the noise until he takes them.
Nevermind.
There it is.
"You're here again?"
"Does it matter?"
"So, you can hear me."
He doesn't answer and the scoff is audible. His lips curl up into a sarcastic smile only on the left side. It's amusing.
"You're one of those crazies that has to go to extremes to hear a voice of reason, huh?"
"Look who's talking. One of us is still here after all."
"Oooh, that's a low blow. That's unlike you."
"Or it's just a side you never saw."
"You are now as you always have been. Do you miss me this much?"
"I always miss you but the world goes on, doesn't it?"
"I can't tell if that's my line or yours..."
He doesn't answer again. The silence is stiff and uncomfortable this time.
He's not jumping anyway and that's probably why things are as quiet as they are. They both know he's not. He doesn't want to. The adrenaline that comes with the fear and the worry always feels like it rushes the drugs through his system a lot faster. He wants the numb, the empty. He wants to pretend everything is okay.
That everything has always been okay.
"How long have you been running now?"
"...What?"
"I thought you'd be tired of running from your family by now but it's the only thing you go over and beyond for."
"They want me back because they want to put me back in that hospital. I got out on good behavior but they still think I'm a mistake and that I can't do anything for myself."
"Can you?"
"What?"
"Can you do anything for yourself?"
"Are consciouses... Does a conscious speak like this to the... human they're attached to?"
"San, you know I wasn't selected for you, right? I'm an extension of you. Stop pretending you don't know that."
"Feels like you're against me."
"I'm merged with your subconscious. You're against yourself."
"That's what got me locked up in that hospital in the first place."
He zips his jacket up and stuffs his hands in his pockets, making his way to the fire escape he came up on. His feet hit the pavement but he's questioning again if it should have been all of him at once in a different way. The voice is quiet now and so is the rest of the city. It's alive but the world is rushing by him and it's too loud all at once for him to single out a sound or form a clear picture and that means he's where he needs to be.
Feet dragging him along, he unconsciously balls up his sleeves. This jean jacket exposes a lot of his sweater and he knows he did it on purpose to wear the white only to taint it with crimson and wear it out. No one would necessarily know that. It looks like a fashion statement. Beneficial. The way the fabric is brushing over every raw wound is not though. Thankfully, he's not too far away from his apartment though and that means he can just sit in the shower and soak until he prunes up and all the layers of dried blood rehydrate and color the water until he drains the tub.
He stops in his tracks when he spots familiar faces outside of his building, keeping his distance and doing his best to stay out of sight. His family has found him again and he can't tell if they're actually panicked anymore at this point. Maybe there's a part of him that hopes it's worry but it's outweighed by his surprise at the fact that they haven't given up on him yet. He closes his eyes for a moment, wishing that it's all a dream and that he can just go blackout in his apartment for a bit. Not in the tub though. He's not in the mood to accidentally drown.
He watches and waits for them to leave, knowing they'd be back soon enough once they do. Hopefully, he can find a new place to crash before then, but he's running out of money, and options. He knows they'd just tell him it's okay and that he can come home but he also knows he's not well and that he never quite did get well. It's hard to believe he wouldn't be shipped back to the hospital in a pretty bow with a pretty white jacket because, even though he wouldn't hurt a fly, he himself is not a fly. Destruction is more beautiful when it's self-inflicted, and it's believing things like that that he knows will cause problems.
The problems he's tired of facing.
When did existing just suddenly feel so routine and upsetting?
Once the coast is clear, he hurries inside and straight to his apartment. His back presses against the door as though he'd been chased and someone would come breaking down the door. He wanted a shower. Or a bath. Water. He wanted to soak but he's just too exhausted now, his body crashing onto the bed. Maybe when he wakes.
Maybe when he wakes, he'll find this was all just one long nightmare.
A/N; No, I don't know what this is. I'm in a mood and... we'll just leave it at that...
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