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Five, four, three, two, one.
Five: grandma told me there are five senses. I said bullshit. There is only one. The sense of shame. That’s all I’ve ever felt.
Four: they will be four because of me. It was meant to be. I knew it. I just didn’t think it’d end this way.
Three: wishes. If I could have just three wishes, I would fix everything. Or not. Maybe I’d stick my knife somewhere until it didn’t hurt anymore.
Two: regrets. More than two, but these two contain them all. I wish I knew why Papa did it. What was it about me he couldn’t stand, couldn’t let even Mom stand by me. The second is… it might be. I never told them. Too gay to say. If only I had the courage to call them what they are to me. Fucking shit.
One: gun to my head. It’s cold, too cold here, and I know the weight, the texture of the metal against the back of my head.
Will he be able to do this? Out of everyone, does he have to be the one to do this?
I can smell him, with my eyes closed as the faggot pussy I am. He reeks of weed, booze and cider. Sometimes lemon or lime. They don’t know I’ve always been good at smells, that’s why I did that fucking cologne. All of them have a subtle difference. Even Toki, after years of diabetes, smells of sugar. Skwisgaar is as sour as one can go, but it isn’t gross or anything… It causes the opposite effect. Nathan is pure spice. If you’d lick him I’m sure the taste would pop in your mouth and wouldn’t leave you for days. Well. I know this one for a fact. But that night everyone was drunk and it’s just another of those we don’t talk about. Ever.
But him… He’s acid. Not sour, not sweet, not spicy. Full tequila shot with salt. Sweat and acid jizz in your mouth with a sly smile I always want to punch.
Why has to be him the one holding the gun?
Five.
Four.
Three.
Two.
One.
“What are you gonna do, asscholesch?”
“Shut ‘p William,” he’s angry. Well I’m angry too. My head is clearer than it’s been in months, since we brought Toki and Abigail back.
And now that I need them… They’re going to kill me.
“Wes don’ts have anys option”.
“Fuck you guysch, you really gonna blow me up like thisch?”
“The Church of the Black Clock said-”
“I don’t give a ratsch’s assch, Nathan! You’re gonna lischten to a fucking cult?”
“We listen to Charles, dood.” He sounds tired.
“That fucking robot.”
With a fast move he digs the bottom of the gun in the back of my head. Sudden pain feels like a relief. I’m so cold.
“Did he tell you to schoot me or fucking drown me?”
I observe how they all look at the water that drenches them above the knees (or below, just Skwisgaar). He trembles slightly behind me.
“The gun was jest to get ya here. So don’t ya move.”
“Godsch help me if I want to move before you kill me.”
“It’s time,” Nathan says like he’s… regretting all this. I hope he will. If they kill me and this doesn’t work and I lay dead forever I hope they regret it for the rest of their lives.
“Gusych, guysch, I already said schorry for the Mordhaus incident, it wasch just an accident—”
“Moidaface, shuts up.” Skwisgaar isnt’ angry. Is he… sad?
“Guys, is this goings to works?” Toki doubts.
“It has to,” he says.
“It will,” Nathan concludes.
Before I can complain his familiar hand pushes me down, down into the water. I open my mouth to shout, to scream about hwo fucking cold the water is and how badly my hand burns, it hurts. Bubbles surround me.
My body starts to slowly warm up, spikes going through me. I try to move, to get out, but his hand holds my head underwater. I’m sure Nathan has my legs ‘cause I can’t hardly move them, and those two assholes are grabbing my arms so tight…
Fuck.
This really must be it.
Are they really doing this for me?
I know I haven’t been the same since Toki came back… First that awful fever, the dreams, waking up at midnight at a random place in Mordhaus. He first thought I was stealing from his crack stash, but I told him I stopped that shit long ago. He started doubting me. They all did. Funny looks, side eyes, strange questions. The dreams got worse. I dreamt of Mordhaus in flames over and over, their bloody bodies lying at the entrance —dead, fucking dead. My hands, covered in ash and blood —and I would wake up in screams but no words or touch would help me. I know he was angry. But he can’t fix everything with a smile and a shot.
I open my eyes. It hurts, water burns, but I need to look at him, at them as my lungs give in. I cough and only water enters, a flood, and I’m—full. Filled. It’s strange how good it suddenly feels, in between all the pain.
He is crying. He is crying and he looks so stupid and desperate and I know —for a fact— that he is a memento away from pulling me out.
My wrist sends needles through my veins, it comes all like a shockwave, vibrating underwater. I open my mouth again. For the last time.
“Guysch—”
It all fades to black.
.
.
.
.
.
Someone’s crying.
There are arms around me. Warm under wet clothes.
Am I dead?
.
.
.
Someone is holding me, crying. Different arms. I know this… embrace. It’s familiar.
Some soft and wet brushes against my face. More than one.
I know this feeling too.
My face twitches.
.
Fuck.
I’m gonna puke.
“DOOD!!” he screams, “GUYS C’ME HERE!”
It tastes awful, my insides burn. Why is it so cold? Am I still wet?
“William? Will? Are ya ok?”
I open my eyes to find his, green covered in salty water.
“Fuck,” it’s all I manage to say before I puke again.
“Let it out, dood, let it out…” he tries to speak but his voice breaks, sobbing. “Ya fecker… ya asshole fecker, I was so feckin’ worried we kill ya…”
I want to punch him and tell him they did. I’m sure I died, even if just for a second. I also want to kiss me, but I can hear their voices around and I probably taste like shit.
“Fuck y’all bunchsch of homo asscholesch.”
They hug me.
I won’t cry.
- Won’t. Cry.
Fuck it.
I cry.
My wrist doesn’t hurt anymore.
I’m… at peace. Somehow.
They did it.
They saved me.
“Thisch isch so gay…”
“Shut up, Murderface.”