Work Text:
The static coming from behind him, becoming deafening as the thrill of his actions began to fade, while crushing guilt quickly started to take its place in the short man's twisted brain, was the only thing left of the life he had before.
He shut down the broadcast in a brief moment of clarity, then just stood there, as the panic and the pain and everything that just happened started bubbling up on his chest and he was scared, scared of whatever will happen next and if the cops already found out and he's just so afraid of himself and didn't think of the consequences of hijacking a whole ass news channel to brainwash people into commiting suicide and he thinks he's just so fucking stupid.
And now he was hyperventilating, his whole being shaking and he couldn't even stand so he dropped to his knees as he started feeling sick and felt like he was going to pass out any moment now but he didn't want to because what if he got caught by the fucking cops or something for hijacking and underage drinking and drug abuse and fucking homicide-
He just realized he killed people- oh god he definitely killed the whole ass town and his only friends and since his parents aren't home because they went to see his aunt or something he definitely killed his fucking parents- and there's nothing he can do to undo the damage he just did because he's an angsty depressed and suicidal teen who thought it was a great idea to brainwash the whole country and make them kill themselves!
Oh he's so fucking smart! He made hundreds of thousands of people commit suicide alongside him but he's somehow not dead and now he has to suffer the consequences of his actions!
What a great night! He's totally not crying and screaming and struggling to breathe! He's fine! Everything is fine!
He's so smart and a great person that he'll go to his parents room and-
And go get a gun from his dad's closet because this is America and everyone has a gun because it's totally necessary and not utterly fucked up!
At least he'll finally finish what he just started thirty minutes ago in a fit of rage that made him stop thinking and do the stupidest shit he has ever done in his entire eighteen years of life.
And so he grabbed the fucking shotgun because having a shotgun in your closet is totally normal and somehow legal.
He pointed it at himself, and he thought it would be genuinely great if he was completely forgotten by the two people that knew and cared about him or something. He didn't want them to feel like shit after knowing he shot himself but he also couldn't stand whatever was happening right now.
He just couldn't do this shit anymore.
He always told himself that he was gonna write some weird gayass poem or a letter ot something before killing himself to make a statement or whatever and make people feel bad, but he definitely knew nobody would give a shit— aside from his two friends who maybe didn't consider him a friend, or so he thought—, so why even bother.
Oh well. He lived a short life and didn't achieve anything but whatever. He knows that even if he doesn't give half a shit about God, he'll definitely go to hell for all of this, and maybe for pissing on a church- whatever.
He was thinking too much, he just needed to pull the trigger and everything will end and he'll be dead and everyone will move on- besides the family members of all the people he killed and Greg and Stephanie and maybe his mom a little bit. She wasn't an absolute piece of shit like his dad and definitely deserved better and he was thinking too much again.
Sometimes he wished he could just shut off his brain or maybe reset it or something so he wouldn't be-
There was someone outside. He heard footsteps, and then a knock on the front door.
He was still in his parent's bedroom, still holding the gun, still aiming it at himself. Yet he never pulled the trigger, he kept thinking about doing it and growing desperate but he couldn't move. He was stuck in place, but time wasn't, and the person in front of the door knocked again.
And then he heard the door open. Then more footsteps, walking around the house, searching for something or maybe they were searching for him.
He dropped the gun, then panicked and tried to hide but his mind was barely working and he didn't know what to do anymore.
He fucked up and he didn't pull the trigger so he could die and now someone was trying to find him and the footsteps were getting closer, maybe because of the fact that he dropped a shotgun and was trying to find a place to hide and everything was so loud-
The door opened, and the person who entered the room and was searching for him smelled awfully like… Weed?
He wanted to say something, wanted to tell him to just leave and cut him off from his life, but the words weren't coming out of his mouth and he just stopped trying.
"Uhh… Is anyone here? Any awfully short gingers hiding in here?"
God he felt like a huge weight just lifted off him. He was still a little panicked but Greg was alive and was searching for him. He thought about coming out of the closet- oh wait, he already did…
He thought about coming out of the PHYSICAL closet. Yet his body couldn't move now and he was too exhausted to even try to do anything at this point.
He heard the closet door open, and he finally saw him, alive and well, standing out of it, looking down at his stupid ass hiding in there behind some shirts.
"Hey. Thought you came out of there like two years ago."
He chuckled, and realized this tall ass stoner somehow made his voice come back and his brain stop panicking and thinking about killing himself… temporarily.
"Thought you did something fucked up, so I came here looking for you, and I was right, kinda."
He panicked again and Jesus fucking Christ he knows he fucked up he wants him dead-
"Now you have underage drinking, drug abuse and hijacking on your criminal record. No one died or got harmed I think… besides this old guy who bought a Gatorade because he had a headache."
Oh.
He thought he fucked up worse than that… I mean yeah hijacking is hijacking but at least it isn't hijacking and homicide… genocide? ...What was the word for killing a bunch of people again?
Whatever. He was fine and everything was fine besides the old fuck with a headache, but he's definitely about to die of old age, so who cares?
"...I was so… so fucking scared I thought you and Stephanie were dead and I fucked up and I'm sorry and-"
"Shh. You're okay, we're all okay. Yeah the whole "hijacking a tv channel to kill people" was kinda weird but you're okay. Just breathe."
Greg sat down next to him, staring down as he started breathing in and out, with the intention of him doing the same. And he did. It was nice to breathe like a normal human being again and not like an old asthmatic lady who just ran a marathon.
After a few minutes of breathing in and out, Greg spoke again and suddenly he realized everything was going to be okay.
"Feel better now?"
"Yeah, I guess. I'm still definitely depressed or something but… Thank you."
He hasn't felt this relieved in ages. After everything that happened earlier and him trying to shoot himself, feeling this calm was nice. He was glad everything was okay now. Maybe tomorrow he'll get asked about it but that was a problem for future him.
After calming down fully, he suddenly felt completely exhausted but he didn't want to— and couldn't— move.
He'll just sleep in the closet and deal with his back and neck hurting like a bitch tomorrow, he supposes. Maybe the pain tomorrow would be some sort of divine punishment for all this, but he didn't really care about it now. Being alive was too exhausting to think about God punishing him for pissing on a church, being gay, and… everything that happened during the last hour and a half.
Hopefully things don't get worse from now on. He definitely hit rock bottom with this, so…
Whatever, he's okay and that's all that matters.