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People always said it got better, swore by it even, but William had really started to doubt that. Maybe people just faked it till they died, put up masks of happiness until the reaper took them when it was their time. Because apparently it was more acceptable to die of murder, natural causes, or disease rather than when you want to and by your own hand.
It was starting to get to the point where he didn't think much of a recovery was possible. The self-loathing was constant and his failures a sharp reminder of how pathetic he was. Whether that failure be in attempts, books, or just anything else that William seemed to suck at. Which was plenty.
Four attempts, all failed because among all the things he couldn't do, death was unfortunately one of them. He tried a fifth time though. People always liked the number five, it was always a number that came quickly to people when they were told to think of a number. So, maybe this would be his lucky one. Was it possible to have a lucky number? (Was it possible to survive four attempts that no one interfered with?) He tried overdosing before, too bad he had a weak stomach and ended up instinctively saving himself before it could happen. But instead of downing a bunch of medicines all at once he did his research. Ignoring the hotline that popped up under his too detailed search about pills and OD.
He bought a few over the course of time that wouldn't have an immediate reaction but rather a slow but efficient one. Keeping them down may have been an easier task with these. Plenty of people managed to die of overdose without vomiting, (at least in movies), so surely there had to be some truth to it. There had to be a way for William to stomach the pills long enough for them to stop his heart. If being patient was the key then he was willing to wait. It was fine, the curly haired adult wasn't in much of a rush this time anyways. He'd play the long game if it gave him what he so desired. At this rate he was about ready to do anything.
So then why did he call the cops?
He had been laying on his back on the bed. Having been sure it'd help to keep himself from indulging in the rising feeling of nausea. For the most part it worked, everything was going how he wanted. He could feel the heavy pit in his stomach and the increasingly numbness in his arms and legs. He was partially aware his breathing was slowing but it still felt fast to him. He was hyperventilating. Because of course he was, a slow death hadn't really been his thing if it could be helped. That's why he tried things that were quick, hanging, electrocution, getting hit by a car, etc. Pills were too slow.
His cloudy mind became more and more panicked, eyes darting around the room and heavy limbs attempting to move around. Could he reach the phone? Did he really want to? A small groan escaped into the empty apartment, though in reality it was more of a whimper. Bones achy, head swirling, vision darkening, he managed to stumble to the phone. Collapsing on the floor as he hastily dialed 911, he explained slurred and only partly coherently what had happened. The lady on the other line sounded over it, had she had a long day at work and he was only adding onto it? He was sorry if that was the case. He didn't mean to bother anyone, he just wanted help. These operators heard a lot on the daily, gruesome things most, and here he was selfishly calling her because he regretted his attempt.
"Sorry, nevermind" he already admitted to it having been a suicide and to having an overdose, doctors were on their way already but he still hung up. Only proceeding to make her life difficult but William couldn't worry about that now. He felt bad, he always did. Why was nothing ever good anymore? Everything was so empty and…boring. But it wasn't a 'I need something to do' type boring it was more of 'nothing is interesting anymore and I don't have the motivation or energy anyways' kind. The kind that cut deep into the bone and made nothing worth it.
He woke up in the hospital, a tube in his mouth and IVs in his pale, blue veined, forearm. His eyes hurt as they tried to adjust and he couldn't help the mixed rush of relief and disappointment he felt seeing his surroundings. Of course he was still alive.
There went attempt number five.
William had to stay in the hospital for a few days. Not only for the care of recovering from the medicine but some extended time too while under suicide watch. He was partly surprised they didn't put him in a ward. But they didn't know about his other attempts, and he lied to them about feeling like this before. He was a good person, all too kind, and way too much of a people pleaser, but he wasn't against lying on documents for his depressing freedom.
His boss at the coffee shop gave him concerned glances when he went back, but nothing else was said about the situation apart from a 'glad to have you back'. William knew that statement was just for pleasantries though. He was a shit worker, his coffee sucked and the only reason why he probably still had the job was because they were understaffed and he was good with people. He always had to redo coffee or take a long time because he messed up and caught his mistake. People were always yelling at him.
This job was too stressful.
His first day back at work he got sent home early when a customer threw his coffee at him. It wasn't hot, luckily. But that had been the problem in the first place. The customer asked for a hot coffee, Morrison got it mixed up with a different order and gave it cold..
"William, you're a great person, you're nice and sympathetic and have such great manners. But please for the love of God, pay attention to the orders. Do you need to go through training again? You don't seem to be able to remember the ways to make them and it's causing scenes and wasting money. You're not fired, but go home for today, okay? You could use it. I'll blame it on you being tired," his boss said, trying her best to sound cheerful and not disappointed.
William solemnly nodded and left with a thanks. When he managed home he cried himself into a nap. Maybe he really was just tired.
He needed a new job though. Until his writing career picked up, (if it would ever), he needed a job and a barista clearly wasn't working out for him. He made himself something microwavable and got to looking. Nothing was of interest at first. No place big was going to hire him, and he didn't think he'd do well as a secretary despite his writing skills. He wanted something at least partly simple. His overactive mind couldn't handle anything else.
A year later he found a lifeguard position that was open, an indoor pool and a reasonable shift. Perfect. No scorching sun and he'd be a decent distance away from people unless they needed help. And he could have the knowledge of knowing that he saved someone (if someone ever needed it. Did a lot of people drown? He wasn't sure. Maybe he could give it a shot one day though).
By the time his second cry for help attempt happened, he had tried and failed twice more. Making that time his sixth regular attempt but technically seventh including that one cry for help. In total this was going to be his seventh.
He told his coworker about it. Well..not really but he gave enough reference to it to the point he should've noticed. They both were on shift but nothing was happening so they were just talking. Somehow the topic shifted enough where William could ask a question which ultimately led down a rabbit hole of things.
"Do you ever feel like you don't make enough of a difference to anyone that you know nobody would care if you died?" Perhaps he asked too nonchalantly or maybe it was just the question in general but his coworker shot him a weird look.
"Nah, not really. I know no matter how annoying they are that my family would care, and I lost my wife recently but her family are still in touch, they'd care too. I have friends too.. So no, I can't really relate. But that's life, right? Just a big disappointment- we should drink to that one day"
His coworker was kind of an idiot. It made sense why he was a lifeguard, all muscle and no brain. William couldn't help but feel the unintentional jabs at him having no family or friends but just noted those reminders for later. They still had a few more hours and he'd rather it not be more awkward than he already felt. So he smiled briefly and somehow the topic shifted to something more light. William didn't know what it was though, couldn't really bring himself out of his own head enough to pay attention. His silence made no difference, the guy next to him could go days talking one sidedly.
It wasn't the first time he went back to his flat with the intention to kill himself, and he had a dreadful feeling that it wouldn't be his last. At the rate he was going, he was going to end up living through everything. Still, all his attempts were worth a shot. And for the most part he got close, if he were any regular person he would've been dead a few attempts ago.
He crouched under his sink, carelessly tossing out the bottles of cleaning supplies, if he was lucky he wouldn't live to have to put them away anyways. He found the small cylinder which was the ant killer. The apartment had a minor ant problem in the summer and he bought it to get rid of the pesky things. Though he bought the smallest package there was still basically the whole thing. And now it could finally be out to use. Could ant killer expire? Did it really matter if he was going to die anyways? The labeling had faded from the moisture of the cabinet and William found himself not caring. Using the counter and dumping a hefty amount onto the marble. He cut a stray in half with shaky hands and used the smaller cut portion as a funnel to inhale the snowy content. It hurt at first. The uncomfortable, uneven, pressure in his nose made his eyes water but he continued anyway.
Soon the miniature mountain of bug killer was gone, just a few faint strokes of lines that weren't going up the straw. Not that he probably needed it. This was more than enough.
He rubbed at his nose, in the meantime while awaiting his death he didn't want to be in any more pain. The emotional amount was enough, he didn't need physical too. His efforts didn't actually do much but he liked to think they did. He managed his way to the table where he sat, the darkening of his vision was to be expected. Along with his headache. William tried to take steady breaths as he waited for the end. He wanted to enjoy it as best he could. There shouldn't be a reason to suffer any longer now that it was going to all be okay. He ignored the pounding in his head and liquid that continued to form in his eyes. Sleep tempted him but he knew that didn't mean death.
He stood, deciding to leave his brief note on his bedroom table. To whom it was for? He wasn't sure. No one in particular, he supposed. There wasn't anyone for it to be addressed to. For the cops, to make their job easier. He had plenty of writing around, his journals and sticky notes were proof the handwriting matched so they could have an easy shift whoever got lucky enough to get assigned to the case. Would there be a case? Surely the landlord would come harass his corpse when he didn't get the rent, would he report it?
His knees wobbled with each step, he noted his hands still trembling at his sides. Maybe if the packaging hadn't been so worn out he could see what the symptoms were for indigestion. Most cleaning products had them, of course it wasn't for his cause but it proved to assist it. Or would've if he could read it.
Sweat coated him after ten minutes, William had been debating going back down to snort some more but he didn't want to move and the capacity in his lungs felt too small. He wasn't sure how much movement his body could handle. At the same time though, moving around may make it work quicker. Yet on the other hand, he wanted to die in the coziness of his bed. So…
Fifteen minutes passed and the chances of him dying didn't seem likely, at this point he was just making himself suffer. Breathing came and left in heavy pants and his body was shaking so much he might as well have been in Antarctica in the bare minimum of clothing.
"Fuck-" he groaned as he reached for his phone, damn this body and healthy lungs. Though he wasn't sure how much longer the organs would hold up, if he just didn't wimp out at the last minute then he would have done it. But now William was crying and clumsily dialing the number. The other end picking up immediately.
"I inhaled ant poison- fifteen minutes ago..please, help" he was panicking and that wasn't helping his lungs at all. He gripped his damp shirt, fanning the collar as if trying to cool down and let himself breathe better. Maybe he should've thought about breathing fifteen fucking minutes ago! But no, he had to kill himself like this. The concept wasn't too much different from his first cry for help, but the effects certainly hurt more.
He was barely registering what the operator was saying, murmuring out his name when asked and the severity of what he meant by 'inhaled,' once again he had to admit that it was just another pitiful try.
By the time the ambulance came William passed out. Doctors pushed his chest and gave him an oxygen mask, putting him on a stretcher and into the vehicle.
God must've been playing a drinking game with him at this point. Take a shot every time William Morrison tries (and fails) to kill himself. Maybe down a whole bottle in congratulations if he ever actually did it. Or take two if he ends up in the hospital for it.
Must've been so amusing..
"You're awake, good, I was worried. How many times have I seen you this year?" The nurse asked, a small sympathetic smile gracing her features. It was true, she always seemed to be working whenever he came by. Which was too much to be normal. "I'll go get the doctor, I just need to refill your IV bag first." There was some silence while she did that. William didn't bother speaking, just looking down at said IV. "Have you ever thought of taking antidepressants? Or maybe seeing a therapist? I don't know much about whatever it must be that you're going through but there's always help, y'know?" Antidepressants were pointless, only good at causing overdoses. At least it saved him from having to buy medicines for next time. And a therapist..would probably send him to a mental hospital.
He had to stay being treated at the hospital for three days. His employer wasn't happy to hear about the needed time off but he didn't know the cause. Just that William was in the hospital. Since it wasn't necessary, he was planning on just lying if asked about what had happened. For those three days William took depressants and pain meds, he pretended to be peachy. He spoke to a counselor (it was required) and he said it was just a moment of depression, that the medicine was working, and he definitely had a will to live. After those days he was sent home with prescriptions. Just adding to the endless bottles of depressants he had, most were empty by now anyways. He was just too lazy to clean them out.
A couple more months, various bad feelings, two more spread out attempts, both failed obviously and neither required him in the hospital. Life was…still going, unfortunately.
He was never going to try therapy, and he took his antidepressants daily and when needed. But something he hadn't tried or thought about doing was calling the hotline. It never really occurred to him, but eight attempts over he was desperate to feel something other than sorrow. No matter the means, if it meant getting better and being normal or dying and being bliss to everything. He didn't care at this point. He wanted to be happy, not die. But you can't have a cake and eat it too, (for some reason).
He was having a panic attack, nothing new there but in the cloudy decision making he googled 'suicide' and of course the first thing was the silly little disclaimer saying to get help and the number. He dialed it, a rift of anxiety. William wasn't much of a conversationalist, now he was on a call with a stranger and-
"How are you?" He asked the operator hesitantly, voice wobbly yet soft as it usually got when he was scared or unsure about speaking. The operator had patience and may have assumed this and replied they were fine and ready to help, which was a great doorway into asking William what it was that made him call. The voice was of a girl who sounded genuine and concerned. He wasn't sure if it was real care or not in her voice but he could take anything.
She helped him through his panic attack, listened through his poetically depressing views of life and his plans to kill himself. He briefly spoke of his past attempts too before asking if that was going to get him sent away. She was only partly amused by that.
"Listen, sir, there might be other callers, is there something I can help you with? Are you planning something today? Because while I'm here to help the things you're talking about are for a therapist, I'm here to stop you from doing harmful things. So back on topic, are you planning on doing anything today?" William felt like a little kid being scolded which made him wrap his arm around his torso, his fingers messing with the hems of his sleeve. He was reclined against the wall from where he was on the floor. Sitting in a corner.
"Sorry, yes,"
"Okay.. why? What's so messed up in your life? You don't have anyone right? So then, what's causing you stress?"
Couldn't it be exactly that? William sighed and thanked her for her time before hanging up. Useless too. He lit a cigarette. Those did better than any other remedy he tried. Medicine, booze, company, all of it dulled in comparison to the relief smoking brought him. He wasn't going to be a drug addict next, was he? He was sure he had some self love somewhere in him to not go that far.
To distract himself from himself he worked on his book. He decided to fully scrape his last one, and now he was indulging in his thoughts. Writing a book about all his tries. "My Many Deaths" seemed like a good title, fun even. Instead of planning new ones, he focused on passed ones and feelings as he recounted his endless attempts. Using his skillful writing to build a story.
He found himself eating simpler and simpler meals. He'd always been quite lazy when it came to cooking, and now it seemed simple peanut spread on bread would do the trick for him. That and coffee. Shit tons of it. He was so engrossed in his writing he didn't want to stop. He was passionate about his failed career and didn't want to take a break, he only stopped when the rumble in his stomach got too much or too use the bathroom. Very little to sleep, it was pointless to sleep and waste so much good caffeine he had put into his system.
Maybe a bit too much.
His hands were jittery and he found himself unable to form the next few sentences. He didn't take too much medicine, he wasn't nervous either, so what was making him tremble? His heart was beating fast too despite the lack of movement.
It was the mug next to him, stained with the black coffee that made him realize what it was that may have happened. What may have caused this. The time read almost six in the morning, and for a moment William's mouth was agape. He started around ten or so, it was six.. what the absolute fuck!? He didn't mean to stay this late, he barely registered himself getting constant refills of coffee. Whenever he got up he was planning the next few words in his head, replacing words with better sounding ones and repeating them to make sure they'd make sense with his previous sentence and still get the point across. To say the least he may have been distracted with his thoughts but surely he would've gotten out of the zone eventually. He just didn't expect it to be eight hours later.
With his whole body feeling like it was about to go into a seizure, he managed to the cabinet to get water. The glass cup had been too much for his weak wrist though and it fell asleep though he was a ghost. The shatter in the silent apartment sent his heart beating a hundred times faster and made him jump despite seeing it coming.
He felt too overwhelmed. Everything was too much. His heart was pounding, his breathing was once again not steady, his body was twitching, and he felt too much all at once. Everything was too much. Too much. Way to fucking much. Another cup fell and he cried. Trying his best to get a hold of himself while in such a disoriented, panicked state. He would have screamed out if not for the neighbors who were either sleeping or just now rising for work. He never did get his water but that was the least of his problems. He slid down the cabinet and onto the shards of glass. Only making a lousy attempt of clearing the pointers by using his hanging sweater sleeve to swipe. Pricks could be felt on his legs and hands but he didn't care. If anything it just proceeded to add to the overload of senses and yet in a sick way helped to bring him back to Earth.
He sat there for at least thirty minutes. His eyes were sore and raw, his cheeks matching the red of his eyes, and his body slumped with exhaustion. His lungs felt too heavy now, as if he just ran a marathon without proper training to lead up to it.
William didn't bother moving, his sweater kept him warm and his limbs were against him anyways so he just fell asleep there. When he woke again it was one in the afternoon, he got a good seven hours of sleep but that didn't really mean much when he spent a bit over sixteen hours the previous day awake. His arms were injured with small cuts, the movement in his deep slumber caused harm with
his surroundings. He rubbed his eyes with scarred fingers and sweaty palms.
Definitely no coffee to start his 'morning'.