Work Text:
He had the last injection.
“I don’t want this anymore” he says to the empty room, to the worn-out books. And he realises that he’s alone.
His elbows are stinging, he’s afraid of moving them. His fingers, so pale to resemble ash, are shaking.
He coughs, and his back shakes.
He opens his hand and is not surprised to see bloodstains
He closes his fingers on that little disaster that’s his life, and he doesn’t even hope that that pain will disappear like a nightmare, a cruel illusion.
But he decided this is the last time.
He stroke the match as if he was performing a magic ritual. Its faint flickering lights up his blank pupils; he couldn’t blow it out even if he tried.
He protects that little flame.
And he thinks about fourteen candles, they had mixed some blue and some pink ones, those that they had found in the house.
“I want to go back home”
He whispers that like a wish, and his little star falls on the pages at his feet.
This is the right thing to do.
He cried in his arms because his life was meaningless.
Now he sees him. Into the smell of burnt paper.
His favourite story.
He waited for the sunset, so that he wouldn’t burn alone.
Or for something else, he doesn’t know.
He doesn’t ask for help.
This is the last time. The last sunset.
It all ends; not in the mist of the night, but in smoke.