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"Chase, stop it, open the door!"
Chase didn't answer, even when Marvin pounded on the door. He was too drunk to stand, immediately catching himself on his hands and knees. He knew what he had to do. He came in here on purpose, after all. Blurry vision made it difficult to find the sink, but he managed. He was on a mission, after all. Shaky hands blindly groped at what they thought could be the cabinet under the sink, Chase giving a slurred giggle of satisfaction when he clumsily pulled it open.
"M'ybe'll f'ckin' do it right th's time," he mumbled before he fell into another fit of laughter, resting his forehead on the sink. The sudden cold porcelain on his warm sweating body made him shudder and his bones ache. It was unpleasant, only adding to his discomfort on the bathroom floor, but he didn't care. He was getting his rightful punishment.
Chase's trembling hands pulled the bleach from beneath the sink.
He had blocked out Marvin's voice awhile ago, simply resting his back against the sink with the bottle in his lap. Chase stared at it as if it were all alien spacecraft. He knew what it was. He knew what he had to do. But the idea of it still fascinated him.
"M'gonna k'll m'self," he chuckled, as if the idea were hilarious. As if saying it out loud gave him the confidence he needed. Like it was another stunt for a video. "'M'gonna kill myself!"
It wouldn't be quick this time either. No no, he'd be sick as a dog, probably vomiting like crazy. His body would try and get it out, but Chase was too fast! No quick painless gunshots this time. No, this time he deserved the slow, artistic, disgusting death he was going to get.
Marvin had begun trying to ram the door open. Chase ignored him. He stared at the fuzzy image of the bottle of cleaner before he began unscrewing the cap. Now or never, he drowsily told himself.
It was almost full, so Chase had to use both hands to lift it up. He was crying now. Sobbing at that finality of his actions. His arms went weak and the bottle dragged them down, landing with a dull plastic thump and splashing some of its contents out.
Chase fucking despised it. Weak weak body, can't do anything properly. Can't even kill itself right. Lift the damn bottle like you do with every other fucking bottle. Chase sobbed. Chase laughed. It's just whiskey. That's what he'd tell himself. Another fucking cowardly way out for a fucking coward. It was his penance. He was sin incarnate. He was dirty and wrong and unholy. What kind of creature denies himself love just to punish himself, and then punishes himself for doing that? A pathetic whining rat, that's who. Chase's drunken mind created the image of a rat holding a tiny bottle of bleach in its disgusting paws. He laughed. The rat wound convulse and vomit and die, and so would he. Just fucking get it over with. Or go out there and wallow and rot in the fact that you have no one. A cocoon of acid.
Chase shakily lifted the bottle again, putting it to his lips before he could think too hard. Gravity pushed it against his head, taking the work off of his weakened arms.
He didn't let it touch his tongue. He just chugged and chugged: not breathing, not tasting, just swallowing. He already felt sick. Chase's whole mouth burned like it would melt at any second, and the feeling spread to his throat. The bleach drowned his sobs, disintegrated the lump in his throat.
Keep going, he told himself, You'll feel so much better after you hurt.
And he did. He swallowed and swallowed until his head and chest and throat burned and his mind ached and his eyes poured. Finally his arms gave out and the bottle tumbled, spilling the rest of its contents on the pristine tile floor. Chase crawled to the toilet as fast as he could, heaving bile and cleaner into the bowl. His stomach convulsed as he threw it all up, but the damage was done. His throat was ablaze, he was drunker than he'd ever been in his life, and the only people that knew him either despised him or were caring for him out of necessity. That's what he was. A crying, whining inconvenience that fucked up everyone else's lives. He was no better than what he was puking up. Chase's body felt dense as he cried. Everything was solid, yet his being was translucent. He doubled over the toilet bowl again, still dry heaving.
"M'gonna die..." he realized wistfully, his destroyed voice only making him break into a smile.
This was perfect! He was suffering. He had the gall to speak what was on his disgusting mind, and this was his atonement. He felt like his insides were being set on fire. It was euphoria. He was setting them free of him. Finally he would do something good for them. He would die with them hating him. Just like he deserved. Just like he wanted. Perfect perfect perfect.
Chase's body was getting weaker. The hands holding him up buckled under his weight and he collapsed onto his side, curling into himself on the freezing tile floor. Every wheeze for breath was a blizzard gust of wind on his burning insides; it gave no relief. It was just a different fire. Chase's smile disappeared as he hugged himself.
Why. Why did he crave being alone and in pain. Why did he want everyone to ignore and forget him. Why was that a lie. Why was he so desperate for someone to fucking care only to hate them when they do. He fucking hated himself. He hated them. But he hated himself more. He hated that Marvin was being so damn loud, especially when the door swung open so fast it cracked the wall.
Chase sobbed in disgust when Marvin touched him, even if he couldn't hear his pleas for Chase to stay awake.
"Lea'me alone," he begged pathetically, his voice barely audible from the bleach eroding his esophagus, "Jusss' lllemme die th's time..."
Even now, he was trying to drag himself away from Marvin. The only person comforting him. His vision swam from tears and alcohol, the shuddering weakness spread to his whole body. Oh, so desperately he wanted Marvin to hold him. To cradle and comfort him in his last moments. He wanted them to cry together, to know he meant something more than the drunk worm he felt like. Oh god, for Marvin to tell him it would all be ok, that they'd meet in the next life. But he couldn't bear that revelation. He couldn't bear to make things worse by making Marvin hold him. So he crawled away. Shunning everyone to the end.
"L'emme die, l'emme die, pl'see," Chase wept.
This was what he wanted. He didn't want a new family. He didn't want to replace his children. He didn't want to keep pushing. He was a coward and he wanted to give up. He was tired. Oh, he was really tired now.
He was dying. Even though Marvin was calling Henrik, he wouldn't get here in time. Not when Chase was so determined to die. To rid the world of the heavy worthless burden that was his pathetic existence. His dreamy smile returned. He was finally dying.
His drunken vision melted into nothing but shapes, then monochrome blobs, and then Chase was blind. There was no light. There wasn't anything. Just like he wanted.
The guilty received his final punishment with unrivaled joy. The bleach still emptied its contents as Marvin cried.