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living doesn't mean alive

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The black notebook made a quiet 'thud' as he dropped it on the floor under his bed, finding its place between scattered papers and empty bottles of painkillers.

It had been his way of explaining his last months on earth. Filled with songs he liked, books he'd read, things he wrote. He wanted whomever found the notebook - found him - to at least have some closure, some insight into his last days. To know that this wasn't impulsive, but rather planned.

Connor had planned to kill himself.


The pills had been easy to find. He hit up some old friends, telling him about having great problems falling asleep and needed some remedy. They'd believed him. After all, the dark circles under his eyes would tell that story if you didn't think too much about the person having them.

He was a stoner kid - who knows what else he did at night, right? It wasn't like anyone minded him sleeping in class or downing his third energy that day.

Connor was basically invisible as it was- why not make that reality ?

Stashed behind his copy of All the bright places and Will Grayson, Will Grayson they had been his very own inside joke.

"Re- arranging your room again?"

Connor turned to see his sister leaning against the doorway. Black floral dress, jeans jacket, heavy blush - going out with friends. She wouldn't be back until 9pm.

"Felt like it," he shrugged.

He was sorting out his things to make it easier for his family.

 

The entire day he'd spent looking at the clock, thinking how he'd have killed himself in three hours. Two hours. One hour.

Instead he had been sitting in French class, trying to focus even though everything was pointless.


He had been empty, at first. Knowing he would have -  scratch that, should have - killed himself ought to have him anxious, sad, alone. But he'd been calm.

It was objective. There was no numbness, no apathy, just plain acceptance. Analysing everything that had been leading up to the point, everything that went wrong and made him think suicide was the best way.

But even in the few weeks after the date, he refused to think about how no one noticed. His calmness was temporary. He couldn't yet face the waves that would eventually crash down on him and drown him yet another time.


Then came realization.

Because, let's face it, Connor really would have done this. Nothing had been keeping him back. His room had been organized, old things thrown away. He didn't keep the last few of his friends close, he got into more and more arguments with his parents and sister, hoping they would hate him just enough.

Somehow he didn't want to hurt them. After everything, he didn't want to hurt them.

He'd been the villain for them too often, even though he was trying his best to be the hero.


Acceptance.

He couldn't remember the last time he just felt there. No pain, no crying, just being.

His performance improved, he tried at school again - because, what even mattered ?

Connor was doing great.

The nights he spent hysterically laughing at his own existence were just bumps on the road. It didn't matter that he swore that he looked like a different person every time he passed a mirror. Screaming and sobbing into pillows until he felt nauseous were unimportant.

They would be a story some day. Back with the people who had watched him fall apart, telling them how close he had been to killing himself. A secret 'Fuck you' dedicated to the people he loved.

 

"I noticed you've been more absent lately." His teacher was staring at him intently, frowning slightly. "I don't know if it's because of something going on at home, or some trouble or maybe you're just tired. I remember you as being so open back then."

He couldn't meet her eyes. "Just tired." What was he doing? Tell her! Why aren't you telling her?! TELL HER THE TRUTH.

"Well then, I hope you improve next year. I don't like giving you bad grades when I know you can do better. Will you try?"

He nodded numbly. He didn't need to try because he would be dead in a few days.

 

That night he cried for the first time in a while. She had noticed him.

But he was too far gone for that.


Finally it had been anger.

The more he though about it, the more he realised he'd been the textbook suicidal teenager. He was Hannah Baker, Theodore Finch, that guy from It's kind of a funny story.

Absence at school, dropping grades, failing exams, lashing out at people. He had been portraying everything he felt to the outside world. He was hurt and he wanted people to see.

Maybe someone would have stopped him.

 

His father was staring at the paper sent by his teacher.

"This is your future."

There was no anger in his voice, just hollow acceptance.

If it hadn't been for his head chanting that it was good that way, he probably would have cried. There was no way he could explain himself without revealing why this had happened.

"I hope you know that you can't apply to medical school with this. I can't even think of any university that would take you."

He was drowning and dying in space at the same time. Just focus on the table, don't think about it, just nod and don't make a fucking sound.

He had told himself those things in the mirror the previous night. He wouldn't amount to anything in life unless he ended it.

 

"Did you even try?" "What where you thinking?"

"This will affect your future, don't you know that?"

 

He hadn't planned for a future, for fuck's sake.


It was somehow sadistic to be into the drama of his own suicide, he knew that.

But he couldn't help but think about the satisfaction of hurting someone else for once, to show everyone that he just simply wasn't a fucking failure but already dead.

Maybe his suicide would make things better for someone else.

Maybe someone would realise that they'd ignore the signs, even if they cared for a person. That someone could be just that miserable and tired of being alive that they'd end themselves.

Maybe his teachers would understand that the desire to kill oneself is a bigger issue in someone's life than writing an essay.

 

He wanted to prove that he wasn't lying when saying he wasn't fine.

Wanted to show how good of a liar he was when he wasn't even trying.

Prove his sister that her life would be so much better without him in it to ruin hers.

 

For once he wished he'd just been selfish and went through with his plan. Damn his sister's band competition, his father's promotion and his mother's birthday.

He was the one who would have to suffer every. Single. Time. He would have to deal with it again and again until he couldn't take it anymore. This time he had prepared everything, next time he'd have a plan B and the time after that he'd probably finally do it. But every time he would be the only one who could try to save himself.

 

Even if he hadn't taken those pills two months ago, he was dead. A living corpse with a drained spirit, questioning the reality of its existence.

 

Some part of him had really died. And he couldn't even tell which one.