Chapter Text
It's a strange thing, coming to terms with your own death.
Wemmbu thinks it should feel a bit lighter. Shouldn't it be a weight off his chest knowing this doesn't have to go on? But a selfish part of him has always wanted for things to work out. For the universe to make room for him to have a future.
Except Wemmbu has always known there was never space for him. Wemmbu has always known that miracles don't happen and there was never another ending for him. Ever since the moment when he was nine and unsure if he even wanted a future, his destiny was set.
Still, it stings watching everyone move forward and knowing it's his own fault he can't follow. Everyone is making it into their schools and majors and planning their futures together, meanwhile Wemmbu has to rot alone every night reminding himself that it's all his fault. Because if he wanted a future he could've tried a little harder to be involved, to have that community influence and the extracurriculars that all those schools want. He could've clung on to his friends activities like a parasite, and as kind as they are they likely wouldn't have even minded. Eggchan always asked if he wanted to join his club. Parrot and Wifies had given him tutoring offers, but Wemmbu had pushed through each class alone.
Always alone. Even when Flame reached out with offers of working together, Wemmbu declined. Wouldn't letting them get closer be crueler? He knew how this would end. It was obvious in the way his bones jutted out awkwardly every time he looked in the mirror. In the uneven, jagged scarring across his thighs and the few marks he allowed on his arms, ones he could believably blame on the cat. Purposeful or not, eventually some of it was going to kill him. Maybe it was just a little reassuring in a way, knowing there was no coming back from this. He could continue dragging himself to school for a few more weeks, but his body would give out soon enough.
Hopefully it'd be soon anyway. He couldn't stand the way his brother, Spoke, looked at him every time he emerged from his room. Like he was some pitiful creature in need of saving. And he hated the way Minute would come up, putting a hand on his shoulder and asking if he needed to talk about anything. What was left to say? Why couldn't everyone accept he was too far gone?
Maybe he was just that good at hiding it. He was careful to never let his grades slip too far, never cut too deep on his wrists, never say anything too concerning that would instantly land him with the counselor. He had learned his lesson long ago.
It wasn't always this bad though, he thinks. It had started smaller, and then slowly turned to shit as most things seemed to for him. It was just easier to keep the curtains closed all the time, the sun was so annoying when it hit his eyes as he laid down for a nap. And keeping the regular light off made things simpler, too. And then suddenly he was tired all the time, always preferring sleep over being awake. Suddenly he dreaded every morning, and dragging himself out of bed was a physically painful chore. Then eventually one day he entered his dark room and felt as though it was suffocating him. As though the shadows were seeping under his skin and infecting his own body, and they weighed down so heavy he gave up on dreaming of escape.
Now, every dark room reminded him of that night a year ago. The night where he stood alone with that rope around his neck and tears streaming down his face as he tried to find the courage for that final step. He had failed, obviously, and told no one of what nearly occurred while they'd been asleep. It would've only made things worse, because they'd try to save him and he'd have to put them through that disappointing realization that such a thing was impossible.
He didn't want to drag anyone down with him after all. A year has gone by and nothing's changed. He hates himself even more for being so stupid, so scared, for still being scared despite knowing he had no other option.
Maybe that wasn't entirely true. It didn't have to be the rope. There was a packed medicine cabinet in the bathroom, though he heard that was an ineffective and painful way to go. He could always try a classic and bleed out, but that was similarly risky. The rope was safe because there was no out, no turning back. Once he made that step anyway.
Or he could just wait for the gnawing in his stomach to claim him, but he feared passing out in public soon and getting sent to "recovery."
As though they could fix him.
Wemmbu rolls over in his bed, sick of weighing the options. Everything is too slow or too much effort, and nothing terrifies him more than making the same choice as last year.
Maybe if I write letters, he thinks. Maybe that will give me closure or whatever. After all, if I send some final words out, I can't go back on it, can I?
It's probably a stupid plan, but it's all he has. He pulls out his notes app and begins drafting a letter.
Dear Minute,
Wait, is he really going to write individual letters for everyone? That'll take forever.
Dear everyone,
No, that feels stupid. Is he really going to be lazy with his suicide note? He's not doing it tonight; he can afford them a little more time and effort.
But effort sounds exhausting and it's already late. Wemmbu clicks his phone off and swears to try again tomorrow, because that's all he ever does. He'll be braver then, probably. Hopefully. Or maybe the universe will finally be merciful, and he won't have to wake up again. Maybe this could just be it. Wemmbu would be more than okay with that.
The next morning, the sun peeks through the curtains and someone knocks at the door calling him for breakfast. Wemmbu squeezes his eyes shut and tries very hard not to cry.
Tonight. I'll get them done tonight.
He already knows he's lying.