Work Text:
I stare down at my hands.
I stare out the window.
I stare at the doorway.
I stare at the pills scattered on the ground.
Except, I’m not really staring, or even looking. I don’t know what I see. I’m not focused.
I feel the smallest breeze from the window.
I feel the ground beneath me.
I feel the excruciating weight on my chest.
I feel the bandages on my arms.
I can’t do this anymore.
------
I awaken to hear the sound of some kind of beeping and some quiet voices mumbling around me.
Everything hurts, from my head to my feet.
I peer my eyes open, daring to look around.
I wasn’t home.
The voices go completely quiet.
“Ichimatsu?”
------
I was sat upright in my bed, alone in the room with a psychologist.
They ask pointless questions and I respond with just as meaningless answers.
“Why did you try to kill yourself?” They finally bring up.
Because nothing in life matters.
Because I don’t matter.
Because my existence is pathetic and worthless.
Because I’m nothing.
Because I’m unfixable.
“I don’t know anymore.” I say back.
------
I was discharged a few hours later.
We exit the hospital with only a couple of pieces of paper with names and phone numbers on it.
I don’t even know how I’m still alive.
My brothers have hardly said a word to me this whole time, only giving me pitiful looks.
I think they don’t want to anger me. Or maybe they think I’m as fragile as cracked glass and any word they say to me will shatter whatever’s left of me.
They wouldn’t be wrong. I wouldn’t ever admit to it.
Jyushimatsu, Osomatsu, and Mum shared the taxi I was taking back home.
I don’t want to go back.
Back to living my life at a standstill.
I wouldn’t even call it ‘living’.
I wouldn’t even call it ‘surviving’, or ‘existing’.
I stopped ‘living’ a long time ago.
------
Everyone is keeping a close eye on me. Watchful glares, keeping track of my every move, my every action.
I’ve been given a prescription for some kind of antidepressant. I have to take it every morning, given to me by our mum and watched closely as I take it and swallow it down. Making sure I actually take it and don’t stash it away.
I’m followed as I go to the bathroom, to the bedroom, outside. By at least one person.
I’m never alone.
Not anymore.
It’s annoying. It’s frustrating. It’s infuriating.
But I keep my useless mouth shut, and let it happen.
I do what I’m told like a fucking leashed dog.
The days blend into weeks, which blur into months.
My restrictions are eased as everyone believes they can trust me to be alone with myself.
They’re wrong.
------
I stare into the toilet as I flush, watching the bloodied toilet paper and the rest of my medication swirl down into the pipe system.
Those pills are a joke. They did absolutely nothing to benefit me and my fucked-up brain.
I could feel blood continuing to seep through the new bandages I had applied to my right arm, another reminder of my fucked-up self.
I grab my head forcefully with both my hands, tightly gripping at my hair as I fall to my knees on the bathroom floor.
Squeezing my mouth shut as not to scream, I slam both my fists on the tiles, feeling the impact shoot up my arms and ache in my fists.
I can feel the life slowly draining out of me as each day passes.
I feel myself running out of time.
------
I stare down at my feet.
I stare out the window.
I stare at the doorway.
I stare at the noose tied to the ceiling.
Except this time, I pay very close attention. Notice every detail.
I feel the strong breeze from the window.
I feel the chair beneath me.
I feel how lightheaded I am.
I feel the rope on my shoulders.
I can do this.