Chapter Text
Drip.
Drip.
Drip.
Blood dripped slowly off the edge of the hammer in his hands as it weighed him down. The boy looked at the body at his feet and kicked it lightly one last time, out of breath. Sweat pooled on his brow. He wiped it off and fell to the ground, his legs giving out, the wheelchair abandoned to his right.
A sense of pride flooded his veins, despite the brutality of what he had just done. He knew that to anyone else, seeing a seventeen-year-old boy holding a bloody hammer over the unrecognizable body of a grown man would look horrific. And it was, he knew what he had done was legally wrong. But morally, the man at his feet deserved it. He did, didn’t he? After everything he had done to Roger, after all the times he had broken Roger’s legs and ankles, to the point he couldn’t walk on his own without severe pain, all the times he had made a little boy feel afraid, cowered in his sheets as he watched a grown man close and lock the bedroom door behind him. After all the times he had hurt Roger, he deserved the savage death he had just endured.
But, did he? Did anyone deserve to die, ever? Roger’s hands shook at the thought that he had just taken another life. But, the first one was an accident, it was. He never would have hurt…
He didn’t have time to think about that right now, he had things to do, and he was running out of time before his mum came home. Abandoning the wheelchair, the dark boy dug his fingers into the carpet, dragging himself towards the door. His legs ached, but he refused to get back in that chair. He wouldn’t do it.
Despite the pain, it would take forever to drag himself all over the place, so Roger grabbed the door handle and pulled himself up, swinging himself all over the place in the process. But eventually, the door stopped swinging and he locked the door, closing it.
As a little boy, Roger used to be jealous of his friends that they all had double-story houses, but at this moment, he had never been more grateful. He would have fallen down the stairs if they had them. But instead, he grabbed onto chairs and doors and anything he could get his shaking hands on to pull himself forward. The pain radiating throughout his legs almost was enough to stop, but he just had to keep going. Never in his life had he been more set on something.
Light filtered around the corner as he fell to the tile floor of the kitchen. Reaching his hands up weakly to the counter, he used all the energy he could muster to pull his body weight up as he leaned against the counter, pulling himself towards the sink. Under the sink, his mom kept a spare rope used for drying clothes outside in case the one outside snapped during a storm.
The cabinet door creaked open as he felt around, moving bottles of cleaner and paper towels. Finally, his hand rested on a bristly object that he wrapped up into a neat loop and shoved inside his pocket with ease.
Once he had the most important thing, he dragged himself awkwardly over to the dinner table where he grabbed a chair. Roger rested his legs on the chair for a moment, gaining a pause of respite, but he knew he had to keep going, he was almost there. Putting one knee on the chair and one leg on the ground, with each painful step the chair screeched across the floor as he strained himself forward.
Minutes passed and Roger was only halfway to his room, but he was getting closer and closer with each step. A few times, he collapsed against the chair, willing himself not to cry. He was in so much pain, he hadn’t walked like this without help in years.
He missed being able to walk, to run. Oh how he missed being able to run, the cold wind in his lungs, burning. But running was what had gotten him here in the first place, so maybe running wasn’t so great after all.
But still, what he would give to walk without pain again.
Shakily, Roger wrapped his hand around the metal door handle and pushed with all his might. The door swung and hit the wall. Roger hesitantly grabbed the chair and tugged it inside his room where he dragged it to the closet.
As he rested, about to open the closet, something pulled him out of his tunnel vision. Slightly crumpled drawings poorly taped to the closet doors hung, dozens of them. He hadn’t looked at them in years, but they were always in the back of his mind.
Simon had made them. Years ago, when Roger was at his house, they had been drawing together. Simon always loved to draw. But most of all, he loved to share his art with others. Over the years, Roger had earned himself quite the collection of Simon artwork. It was quite impressive actually.
Roger smiled softly as he looked at the doors. As his eyes fell on each drawing, a drowning grief pulled him down, making it hard to think. Tears choked him and he fell to the floor, pulling his knees to his chest. It was all his fault, if it weren’t for him it wouldn’t just be the closet doors covered in pictures. It was all his fault. All his fault. All. His. Fault.
But that was why this had to be done. He knew that the space he would leave would be filled with flowers born from the ashes, that good would come from his absence. The world would no longer be weighed down by his presence. People would rejoice in his passing, with smiles on their faces. He knew it. Before, when Roger’s world was still pure, all he had ever wanted to grow up to be was someone who made others happy.
He would do it alright. If it was the last goddamn thing he ever did, he would do what he had always wanted to do, even if it was in a different way than he had imagined as a starry-eyed littlun.
Hands gripping the closet doors, he tore them open. A bar sat straight at the top of the closet where his clothes hung from hangers. He pushed them aside to create an empty center, revealing the back of the closet.
Awkwardly, Roger dragged himself and the chair into the closet. Pushing himself up, he reached into his pocket and pulled out the coarse rope. It felt like sandpaper, each tiny bristle curling into the folds of his hands. Clumsily, he tied a rough knot, creating a loop at the bottom. He measured it, but accidentally made it just a little too big. He didn’t care, he just wanted this to be done and over with.
Shakily, he reached up and tied the loose end to the bar in the closet, tugging on it to make sure it was secure.
This is it. I’m really doing this.
Trembling like a leaf, Roger stood up on the chair, leaning against it with all his weight. It hurt so badly to stand, but it wouldn’t matter. Just as he was about to grab the rope, he fell back down on the chair, crying out in pain from the fall.
With every ounce of strength left in him, he pulled himself up and grabbed the bar to tug himself up. Once he was standing, albeit swaying and leaning against the chair for support, the boy grabbed the loop with hands shaking violently.
Inhaling deeply, he grabbed the loop and gently put it around his neck. Just as he was about to do it, time stopped. Thoughts filtered into Roger’s mind. Did he really want to do this? What would his mum think, his little sister? Would they miss him? No, they wouldn’t, they—they would be better off without him, right? He was only a burden to his mum, who worked her ass off to provide for him. She could use the money spent on therapists and school for more important things, like a better home or that balcony she had always wanted. He was just a waste of space, a waste of money, a waste of time.
After everything he had gone through, Roger lost his faith in God. It was always something he lied about to make his mum happy, but now he was really beginning to question. What if God was real? What if the afterlife was a real thing, and…
Would he get to see Simon again?
With each racing thought Roger began to squeeze the rope in his hands tighter and tighter. And then, for the first time in six years, tears pooled in his eyes and rolled down his cheeks. First, they were slow, then they began to fall. Sobbing, Roger realized he didn’t want to do this. He truly didn’t, but, the voices in his head were telling him this was the only way to get his head to quiet down, to make the world a better place.
Trembling uncontrollably, Roger weakly kicked the chair out from under him and let gravity take hold.
But, it didn’t go as planned. He must have done something wrong, because it didn’t all fade to black like he imagined. No, something was terribly wrong. Instead of being erased, he was now dangling from the closet ceiling, a rope tight around his neck, strangling him.
He could feel the life being choked out of him, his throat closing. It wasn’t supposed to be like this, it was supposed to be tranquil and quick, not slow. He knew the devil was laughing up at him for this, but god he was in so much pain.
Desperately, his fingers jumped up to his neck and tried to pry the rope free, but he tied it taut. Roger began to panic as he kicked and scratched, wretchedly trying to escape this trap he had created for himself.
Please, no, wait, I don’t want to die. This can’t be the end. Breathe, I can’t, I can’t—
But it was no use. Black began to cave in on his vision and his kicking slowed. As he gasped for air, only hopeless squeaks escaped his mouth, his airway completely crushed.
A sense of calm washed over him as his eyelids shuttered and a final tear rolled down his face. His eyes dimmed and he let out a final puff of air, his struggling stopped, and his limbs stilled.
In his final thought, he just silently hoped that if the afterlife was real, that wherever he was, Simon would forgive him.