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"I think I'm invincible. It's the only thing that makes sense. I don't think I can die."
It was almost funny now, how true that really was. It was almost funny but March still couldn't bring himself to laugh. Things hadn't really turned themselves around. March had thought that maybe, he could do better. He at least thought he'd try. After everything the three of them had been through, he thought the least he could do was get out of the hole he'd dug for himself. Maybe he hadn't realized how deep in the ground he was. He'd dug so far down, that he couldn't really tell which way was up anymore. He'd tried to climb up, but he never did end up making it very far. He'd always end up falling right back down to where he'd started.
Maybe it had all been a mistake, getting so involved in something so much bigger than himself. Maybe it had become an excuse for him. Another attempt at finding his permanent way out. Healy had been around more, and he was better than march in every sense of the word. A better man, friend, detective, hell, even a better father. Holly looked at him with such admiration. She trusted him. He was more stable than March had ever been. He could protect her, keep her safe from all the bullshit March dragged her into. Holly deserved better than what March had been giving her. Healy was better. She didn't need March to fuck it all up again. Yeah, maybe it was an excuse.
March had resorted to sitting in the bottom of the pool among all the discarded cigarettes and empty bottles. He didn't balance himself on the diving board anymore. Maybe because it was never very comfortable. Maybe because it's hard to drink yourself to death if you can see the window of your sleeping daughter's room, if you can picture her waking up in the morning and seeing you lifeless through the sliding glass door. But really, he wasn't trying to die. At least, that's what he said to himself every time he walked towards that pool. But the reality is, lying to yourself never works as well as people say it does. How could he convince himself that something that he decided, isn't true? Maybe he'd figure it out, if he had the time.
How could he start lying to himself though, if he knew exactly what he was doing. How could he convince himself that every time he took the steps down into that pool, glass clinking against whatever bottle he'd chosen for the night, that part of him hoped he wouldn't climb back out again. How could he pretend he didn't feel the weight of that note, neatly folded into the pocket of whatever jacket he was wearing, just in case one night it really happened. It was crumpled now from being toted around and pressed into a different pocket every day. Maybe one day it would stop creasing. It was nothing to worry about. It was more of an apology than a goodbye. Technically, he could've given it to someone any time, a way of showing that he knew he was a fuck up. He wouldn't though, would he?
Maybe the fact that it wasn't a goodbye was the whole point. He'd thought about it long and hard. He'd never take a gun and just get it over with. The last thing Holly needed was for him to screw her life even more. She'd be better off with him gone, but he was sure that blowing his brains all over the inside of the pool wouldn't be the way to do it. No, with this, he could be a coward. March could be exactly what Holly thought he was. With this, it could be an accident. He could just be some sad old drunk who was way too stupid to know when to quit.
He took a swig from the bottle he'd brought out with him, glass having been long abandoned. Everything was dark except for the one light he left on for when he stumbled his way back into the house. He thought about the day the light wouldn't be needed anymore. He took another long sip. He scooted his butt away from the pool wall even more, allowing him to slouch down even further. March shoved his hand into his pocket, pulling out his lighter and cigarette box. He put the cigarette between his lips with shaky hands. When the thing was finally lit, he took a long drag, letting the smoke full his lungs. He looked up at the sky, but there really wasn't much to look at. All he could see was a faint haze from the LA lights. He sighed heavily. He drained the last of the bottle, looking at it in disappointment before tossing it to the side. For having a plan like his, he really didn't bring enough alcohol. He watched the cigarette burn away between his fingers, not caring to take more than a few puffs.
He began to stand up, grunting as he did so. His back ached. God, he was getting old, wasn't he. Is this how Healy felt? Is this why he was so grumpy all the time? March let out a huff, he was one to talk about grumpy. He took one more puff from his cigarette before tossing it to the side, sending it to join the others in the sort of graveyard March had created. He began to trudge towards the stairs, nearly tripping and falling square onto said stairs. He laughed to himself, wouldn't that be ridiculous, if instead of drinking, he died by tripping over his own god damn feet?
When he reached the door, hands planted on the glass, he looked over his shoulder, gazing at the bottom of the pool. He really couldn't commit to anything, could he? Not even dying. There was irony in it, he supposed. Maybe he was right, maybe he couldn't die. It would be fine, there was always tomorrow.