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He knew buying a gun would be easy, but this easy? It was pathetic, really. With the cost of five hundred dollars and an hour’s wait, he suddenly had a dangerous weapon on hand. A pack of ammo even came free with the handgun.
The old man at the shop seemed nice, too nice to be selling things that could take so many lives. In the time it took for the background check to come in, they had already bonded over what Techno would do with his newfound “true” adulthood, the big twenty-one. He faked some plans to drink for the “first time” as if he hadn’t been stealing whiskey from his father’s stash since he was twelve. But the man at the shop seemed nice enough; Techno liked him enough to hope they didn’t put his face on the news. His look was pretty unique, the man would probably recognize his hair along with the gun at once.
He went to a gun range first. No one really questioned him there, either. For that, he was grateful. Techno took his time studying the weapon, learning how to load the magazine and turn the safety off, eventually working up to aiming the weapon and pressing down on the trigger. The recoil was stronger than he expected, the sharp pressure pushing his arms back and up at the same time, leaving him bewildered. He pressed his lips together and aimed again, keeping a tighter grip the second time around. As the recoil hit again, he found himself smiling. Satisfied with what he had learned, he flipped the safety on and placed the gun gently into his backpack. He let down the tie holding his hair up as he left the building, hoping the pink mess would warm his neck at least a little as he made the walk back to his apartment through the winter weather.
Technoblade was nearly done with all he wished to do, letters already composed and sitting near the front door and all the floors spotless. The only loose ends left were his journals, kept only periodically throughout his life. As soon as he opened the door to his apartment, Techno grabbed the 5 books, the only place where he allowed himself to express his unfiltered thoughts, and took them out to his balcony.
His skin was still frozen from the walk, but he hardly minded the weather, giddy with excitement to break one last rule. Techno laid all the books on the small side table and settled himself into a freezing metal chair. He took a half-empty pack of cigarettes out of his backpack, discarding the bag on the ground next to the chair, and placed one in his mouth. Shielding it from the slight breeze with his hand, he lit up. He cherished the first drag, blowing it out as a silent “fuck you” to his landlord. Glancing at the sun, he estimated that he had enough time before the sun went down. Techno picked up the first book, letting himself fall into soft nostalgia of his childhood. As the day dragged on, he found himself laughing at his past ill wishes for Wilbur to fall down the stairs, missing old pets and tearing up at old hurts. His early obsession with Minecraft, his first time cutting, passing his driving test, 4 AM breakdowns, all the mundanity and pain of his life imprinted on such feeble paper.
As he moved from book to book, he could objectively observe as the contents darkened until all he could see was a reflection of himself, a portrait composed of his worst thoughts. Techno remembers why he started smoking, after all, he had it in writing, hoping for the slowest suicide possible so his family could look at him as a mere disappointment, just another person that should have known better. They wouldn’t blame themselves if it were cancer, but he was tired, too tired to wait for a few more decades. He couldn’t help but purse his lips at his past self’s writing; he could practically see his seventeen-year-old self sitting in the dark on the verge of tears, praying in the written word that he wouldn’t do anything stupid the day he turned twenty-one. He supposed the young man had his reasons to worry.
He finished the rest of the books as the sun had begun to set and his last cigarette had been reduced to ash on the floor, he picked up the books. He left the first one on the coffee table for Phil, Wilbur, and Tommy. While it had its dark spots, he hoped the scraggly handwriting and childish rambles would provide some comfort. Taking the other four, he threw his backpack on and left the apartment for the last time, locking the door behind him. Techno stared down the books as he went down the stairs, the contents still fresh in his mind. As soon as he got two blocks from his apartment, he stopped in front of the first dumpster he saw. He really wished he could leave all his memories behind for the boys, but on the off chance that there is an afterlife, Techno really didn’t want to see his family reading everything. His cheeks burned at the memory of some of his hormone-fueled rants.
Techno shook his head. He couldn’t let Phil see that part of him. The man did his best to be a good parent. He was good enough to not deserve his son’s darkest thoughts. Technoblade threw the four books in the dumpster without another thought and kept walking downtown. He watched, mesmerized, as he neared the tallest buildings in the city. Growing up in a smaller town always left him gawking at everything the city had to offer. He walked with his eyes watching the building lights flipping off occasionally, the sky a void without the stars there to decorate it. He stopped as he saw the familiar shape- his office building, home to his good ol’ desk job as well as 60 floors. He typed in the pin to let himself into the structure, making a beeline to the elevator, pressing the button for floor 59.
He closed his eyes and leaned against the wall until the elevator let out a small ding, and the doors opened. Technoblade hauled his tired body up the stairs, the door to the roof of the building opening easily. The roof was almost nostalgic, just as his childhood was. He had come here every day of the past 6 months to take a smoke break. If not to kill himself faster, the nicotine at least kept the nerves off even during his bleakest days. Techno threw the backpack onto the floor again, kneeling to retrieve the gun. It felt almost unfamiliar again, but he knew how to use it. Tucking the weapon into the waist of his jeans, Techno leaned against the railing.
Despite all the planning and all his confidence, he was terrified. Not so much of death, but living after all of this. Techno couldn’t bear waking up in a hospital, he doubts he would escape this attempt with his mobility intact. He wanted to die, he wanted to die so desperately for all his life, but he couldn’t bear to survive and be subject to a life of being taken care of by his father again, of being washed, fed, and loved with a sad obligation. Technoblade knew that if he survived, he would see his family cry every day, he would be in extreme physical pain for the rest of his life, he wouldn’t even be able to answer why he wanted to kill himself. He knew all this.
He stepped over the rail anyway.
He knew his family probably called to wish him a happy birthday. He had left his phone uncharged in his bedroom, though. They’re probably worried. They’ll probably get here soon. They would have to come by sometime to pick up his things, anyway.
Techno pulled the gun out of his jeans, pressing it against his temple with a shaking hand.
He hopes Wilbur is doing okay at whatever office he’s been working at lately. He hopes Tommy gets into his dream university. He hopes Phil has enough money to retire soon. He hopes the money he left behind is enough for the funeral.
His breathing picks up as he flicks the safety off.
He hopes they all let him pass peacefully, don’t think about him too much. He hopes they can find some comfort in the oldest journal as they grieve. He hopes they don’t go looking too deep for reasons. There aren’t any, really. He hopes his face isn’t in the papers, he wants the old man at the store to be alright. God, he hopes he dies before he hits the fucking pavement.
He let go of the railing, standing tall on the edge for a moment. He squeezed the trigger, letting himself fall in the last second.