Work Text:
Slingshot was curled up in bed scrolling mindlessly though his phone, too tired to get up and do anything else. Their room was a mess, filled with empty food containers, and other various pieces of trash littered on the floor. He hadn’t gone to work in days, not even able to get out of bed. With a sigh, he put his phone to the side, and stared up at the ceiling. How had he ended up here? How had he been doing so well, to this? They thought they were doing better, only for their depression to suddenly crash down on them leaving him incapable of doing anything. He was probably filthy, after not bathing for days. He felt that way, at least.
They curled up under their sheets with a small sniffle. Why were they so pathetic? Why was he so useless? He was supposed to be the reliable one, the person you could always go to for help. A small ping from their phone pulled them out of the spiraling. He picked up his phone and found a text he didn’t know how to respond to from Vinestaff.
“Hey. How are you doing Sling? You haven’t been at work for days… And me and Shuri are both really worried. Please talk to me.”
So, he didn’t. He left the message on sent, feeling guilty for doing so. He hated that he was making Vine worry. She didn’t deserve to deal with their problems. She didn’t deserve a self isolating friend, who couldn't even speak up when he was struggling. Too scared to even ask for help. He ghosted everyone, but every time someone texted him, he felt overwhelming guilt. They were suffocating in their own guilt and filth. It was also suffocating to have to look at those messages of care and worry to always ignore it. He had taken a step down from even before, when he could at least muster up the energy to text back, “im fine.” no matter how unbelievable it was.
Ah. He was crying. He had no reason to, really. They were just being unreasonable again. It would honestly just be better off without them in the world. Maybe they could hang themselves or overdose before someone came to his house to come check on him. That’d be nice. He told himself. To be able to die with no guilt or shame and finally be free of their miserable life. But that was a pipedream with how many loved ones they had. Really, they just wanted to disappear like they never existed.
The thoughts of taking action on a plan were overwhelming. Anything to distract them, when they remembered the blade in their bedside drawer. So they sat up and got it out. Such a small thing really, that held so much importance. Taken off of a pencil sharpener. They stared at it thinking. He would probably regret it, but at this point, what did he have to lose? He couldn’t stay clean for more than a week so might as well. He brought the blade to his thigh, and pressed down. His thigh was already covered in scars and half healing cuts, but he didn’t care. He slid the blade over this thigh again, and again, watching the cuts slowly blossom blood that ran down his leg to the bed. He couldn’t even cut deep, which left him feeling completely invalid. But they couldn’t help but admire the color of the droplets that they had. After a while they snapped out of it and realized they had done a lot more than they were planning on doing, but no matter. It didn’t change anything. With a sigh, they managed to finally get out of bed and into the bathroom. They rinsed off the cuts in the shower, carefully getting rid of the blood. The first shower he had in days, only because of his relapse. At least they would feel a little less disgusting. Changing clothes, they got back into bed to rot. He wished he could actually rot. It would have been a slow death, but a death neither less. Feeling more tired than ever, he fell asleep hoping he would never wake up again.