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Something is staring at him, he knows.
He does not have the courage to even look up, choosing to bury his head in his arms with his knees pressed to his chest. Even when he closes his eyes, he can still see the image of it from that day. It haunts him like a lover, hanging onto him from the grave.
The voice is mocking; taunting him. Something is all around him now, laughing at him for the pathetic state he’s been reduced to in the corner of his own room.
Silently, he wishes for it to stop, but it never does.
Basil opens the door with a silent click as he tiptoes out of the room and peers down to the first floor, where his friends are sleeping deeply.
They stayed the night just for him.
Distantly, he recalls Aubrey’s apology from outside his door. He knows she truly wanted to make up with him, for them to be friends again like they used to be when they were twelve. He’d been too scared to say anything back.
Distantly, he remembers Hero promising that they won’t leave each other — that this time, they’ll stay together. He knows he suffered greatly from Mari's passing and how he'll likely never learn the truth that it wasn't really suicide.
Distantly, he vows to never forget how Kel always defended him in the face of the Hooligans; how he went out of his way to retrieve his photo album just for him. He truly has a good heart with only the best intentions for him.
They’re really good friends, and he’s going to really miss them.
Despite this, he swallows the lump in his throat and retreats to his room. Basil is a coward who can’t stand to face another day. The pain in his heart had only been growing ever since Sunny showed up in his life again.
He should be happy to see him again, but Sunny was moving away. He’s choosing to leave him and the four-year-long guilt they had carried together.
He almost wants to say he couldn’t believe it. But in some ways, he could. Perhaps it was Basil’s fault all along. Even though he has only ever tried to help Sunny, he always ends up burdening him.
(It would be better if he died.)
He closes the door behind him with heavy breaths. He doesn’t know why his chest is tightening up, then he feels an unknown presence in the room that chills him to the bone.
He turns around. There’s no one but his reflection in the window that’s tightly shut. It basks him in the glow of the moonlight.
Then, he feels as if he hears creaking on his ceiling, distant knocking on his walls. But everyone is asleep, and he’s going mad in the dead of night.
Slowly, he makes his way to stand in front of it, staring out into nothing. There are no stars in the sky tonight, just the lonely moon and the empty void. He feels strangely drawn to the vast space, as if opening its arms to welcome him.
(He should die already.)
He glances at the shears on his bedside dresser. Polly got it for him to assist with gardening, so he images she’d be really upset if he used it on himself instead. Then again, would it matter if he was no longer there to see her frown or her tears?
He’s going to really miss her too.
Slowly, he picks it up and watches as his hand shakes. He’s breathing out of his mouth with heavy, shuddered sighs because the oxygen dissipates before it reaches his lungs.
He places it back down with a loud thud in the stifling silence, choosing to clutch his head instead. The flower falls from his hair. He does not bother to pick it up again.
His vision is blurring. He feels wetness gather in the edges of his eyes. Slowly, he raises his head and sees it .
Something hangs off the ceiling, staring him down as if saying, “What are you waiting for?”
His mouth falls open with no words. Perhaps deep down, he’s waiting for someone to save him. He’s waited for that someone for so long. He thought he found it in Sunny, but he’s going to leave him too, just like everyone else.
There was no way a savior would come for him now.
Do it, coward.
His hands shake as he reaches for the shears again with a heavy hand.
Do it.
It feels heavy. He does naught but stares at the shiny, sharp edge, illuminated by the moon’s glow.
Do it.
He imagines how it’d feel on his skin; digging into his flesh.
Do it.
His heart is pounding against his ribs. He tunes it out to the sound of the crickets, as if they are humming a tune just for him, “Put on a show.”
Basil holds his breath as he extends his arms in front of him, clutching the handle with a shaky grip, and steels himself as he swings it into himself with full force.
He does not scream.
He does not succumb to his cowardliness, even in this state after having just stabbed himself . This stupid boy did not even go for the heart or his throat, but blood rises to his mouth anyway and he chokes on it, splattering red all over himself.
He watches as red spills from his stomach and stains his clothes, bringing him down to the floor and limping against the wall.
Breathing feels like inhaling fire into his lungs, so he does not brace himself as he forcefully pulls the shears off of him and it hurts like hell, but all he could let out is a whimper as he lets his head fall.
Bleeding out to death only feels like the appropriate way for him to go: slowly, painfully.
Basil always knew that dying would hurt, but he cannot deny that he’s scared. He’s so afraid that he does not even cry for help in a last-ditch effort at surviving the fact he just stabbed himself and is bleeding out on the floor of his own room.
It always ends up hurting, no matter what he does — whether he keeps living or not.
Deep down, he feels as if the searing pain is deserved for everything that he’s done.
Something crawls up to him.
“Are you finally admitting to your weakness?”
Perhaps he is. He’s known it for a long time, but what did it matter? This is going to end sooner or later. He will not even have to be there to witness their grief.
He nods off into unconsciousness, but he is not yet dead. Something reaches into him as it swarms his body, as if embracing him like a friend.
Seconds pass. Maybe minutes. Maybe hours. He doesn’t know — it’s not as if he’s counting down his death.
His tears have already stopped, leaving drying trails on his cheeks, though the pain in his gut did not lift itself.
His clothes are stained a dark red. He opens his eyes slowly and watches quietly as more blood spills from under him with a whimper.
Silently, he mutters an apology to Mari. He will never forget her love and care, and the way he made a play of her death. He’s spent the last four years lamenting that day, but never did anything to repent for it. He doesn’t know how to. He doesn’t know if there would even be repentance for people like him.
He’s undoubtedly what they call the greatest sinner.
He wants to apologize to Sunny, too. He regrets that he does not even get to tell him that he’s sorry for everything that happened since that day. Even though he did everything for him, he never seems to be able to help him in any meaningful way.
(Perhaps, deep down, even his motives for helping him were rooted in a selfish desire. He just did not want to lose him. He did not want to believe that his best friend would end a life. He did not want to believe that his best friend would vandalize his photos like that. He did not want to believe that his best friend would turn on him.)
He’s weak and selfish. He doesn’t belong here. He doesn’t deserve a chance at life, much less his friends. He wouldn't even be their friend if they knew what really happened that day. And the thought of it hurts — it burns at his eyes and the hole in his stomach.
Something whispers to him. “You made the right choice, sweet boy.”
Did he? Did he really?
He feels his consciousness wavering again. It never mattered at all, in this case.
“It’s okay, you’ll never have to hurt again.”
As his breath ends short, the world goes dark.
He prays to God to grant him a final sweet dream.