Cabin Pressure Fic: Waiting Room
Summary: David's just about ready to die, but there's somebody in his way. (A fill for this prompt on the prompt meme, the prompt being that Martin notices that one of the students is suicidal and tries to help in his own awkward manner.)
Characters: OC, Martin
Word Count: 3,392
Genre: Angst, Hurt/Comfort
Rating: PG-13
Warnings: Suicidal ideation, anxiety, brief self-harm
David doesn't think he can stay much longer.
He tries to think of his death, which at this point is pretty much inevitable, as an appointment. Whenever something that makes him want to die, there's a little part of himself in his brain that says, "Soon, it'll be time for your appointment, and you'll get better."
He really wants to get better, because at this point he's kind of exhausted. He's not empty, not really, but the problem is that he's overflowing, but never with good feelings. Feelings like hurt and sadness and anger and hatred. He's always so nervous.
He wishes he could just stop feeling, and then that voice in the back of his head that brushes against him like the wind says, "It's okay, you will, you will. It'll be time for your appointment soon. The clock is ticking, David."
The clock is ticking, David.
It's ticking closer and closer to the day when he won't be able to take any more of this.
He feels like he's always thinking and thinking and thinking about too many different things like when he's laughing with one of the other students and starts thinking about the heavy duty painkillers he's got stashed in the little cardboard box under his bed, the rope he's got curled up tight in his closet in case the painkillers don't work.
He's planning, still, getting up the strength, gathering every little and big misery to his chest until they just become a part of his heart.
Sometimes when he gets scared at night, when he wants to scream because of the dark making shapes and what he's sure are spiders skittering across his face even though he checks every single night to make sure there aren't any in his room, he presses his arm to his mouth and bites. Bites until he bruises and then until he bleeds, until there are tears of pain running down his face.
The pain gives him a release. It's so intensely physical that it helps take his mind off all the horrible thoughts that run through his head at all hours.
(What if that car crushes me today? I want to die on my own terms. What if the house catches on fire and all my friends die? I'm going to fail that test, aren't I? Maybe my mother's sick and hasn't called me about it yet, maybe it's my father, my sister, my brother. Maybe somebody's going to find out all the things that I feel, maybe they'll find out about the biting, the appointment, oh no, oh no, oh no. Did I leave the stove on? Is it sun outside, or rain, I hope it's not sun, please let it not be sun, I'll get cancer if it gets too bright, I'm sure of it, and I don't like sweat, it's like it's burning through me. There are spiders in the bath tub, I'm sure of it. What if that spider I couldn't kill was poisonous? I don't want to die in pain. Do I even want to die? That's a silly question. Your appointment is coming up, David, it's just a matter of weeks.)
Sometimes his chest gets tight and he burns all over and he can't breathe and he can barely think, sure his brain is exploding, sure he's going absolutely insane. When the panic attack is finally over he lies there on his bed, drenched in cold sweat, shivering, and thinks he must have finally gone insane.
It's not that everything in his life has gone to hell or anything, but school is a constant uphill battle. He's just not good at it, he thinks miserably as he tries to grasp concepts that his classmates managed to in much less time than him. He wants to make his family proud. They're already disappointed that he's not going to a big, important University anyway. He wants to succeed. But he's failing all the time, and the nervous feelings he gets always manage to somehow increase when he's at school. Sometimes he skips class. The guilt he feels is sometimes worth it, sometimes not.
His friends are nice, though, and David sometimes looks at them, smiling and laughing, or moaning about some new assignment, or kissing or whatever, and he's happy until some new intrusive thought runs through his mind.
David sometimes wishes he didn't live with his friends, though, because it makes it hard to detach from them, which is what he knows he has to do in his last couple months of life. And he does it. It's mostly easy when he feels so much like he's floating away down a hellish river.
There is, of course, Martin, the pilot who lives in the most awful part of the house. He's young and sometimes he talks to them, but he's dreadfully awkward. He's nice enough, though, and Lindsey, April, and Terrence actually seem to think he's rather adorable. David is fond of him too, the ghost in the attic, but he's glad they've never been friends.
Just one more person he won't have to hurt when his appointment is finally up.
At night, David always ends up lying in his bed and crying and sometimes bleeding in the dark, terrified of being alone and terrified of everybody else in the world at the same time.
Tonight, he thinks of his appointment, and then what will come after. He hopes that death is like soft velvet settling over his body, his consciousness.
He knows he'll never be afraid again, he'll never have another panic attack again, he'll never cry again, he'll never struggle again, he'll never feel the terrible darkness pushing against his ribs again.
(He'll never laugh over some stupid American comedy full of slapstick on the television with Terrence again. He'll never feel April hug him and kiss his cheek again, or hear her giggle again. He'll never be entranced by Lindsey's singing again. He'll never catch Martin in the kitchen late at night and listen to him chatter on about planes again. He'll never smile again. He'll never laugh again. He'll never be happy again.
Is he willing to trade all of that to just be gone? Is he willing to walk into the doctor's office he imagines his appointment to be in and listen to the doctor's advice that he take an entire bottle of painkillers, and fast?
Of course he is.
When he's dead, there will be no pain. There will be no fear. There will be nothing.
That is something he wants.)
Today hasn't been good. He's been having strings of bad days for such a long time now, months and months. The good times are always tainted by all the ugly thoughts in his head, crowding all around him and making clarity impossible.
"It's time," the little calming voice in his head says, the one that has been making the appointment for months now. "It's finally going to be over soon. Take two days to get everything in order, and then your misery will be over, forever. Finally. It's been a long time coming, David."
It's been a long time coming.
David smiles into the darkness.
He calls his parents when he wakes up in the morning after making that decision, feeling almost invigorated. Feeling better than he has in a while. It doesn't make him change his mind, though, it just makes him hope that this imaginary high stays with him for his last couple of days.
His mother is thrilled to talk to him because--he remembers with a pang of guilt--he hasn't spoken to her in ages. Even his dad sounds happy to hear from him.
David is their third child, the baby, and he thinks it's really too bad that he has to leave them behind.
He loves his mom and dad, he really, really, does, and he hopes they won't think he's selfish, hopes they'll understand that he just had to cut his life a little short because it all got to be too much.
You're a coward, he thinks all through his pleasant, normal conversations with his mom and dad. You're a coward, and they'll be better off without you anyway. You've never really been much of a son.
He doesn't call his sister and brother, but tells his parents to send them his love. He thinks the guilt will eat him from the inside out if he talks to any more members of his family.
He says goodbye to his friends on the last day, when the clock is ticking on his life. One last conversation, and they'll never realize what it was until too late.
Tick, tock, twelve o' clock, and that'll be the end, finally. Finally.
He gives Lindsey, April, and Terrence hugs and when they seem bewildered, because he's not as touchy-feely as them, he just laughs and says, "It's just a good day, isn't it?"
He doesn't say anything like "it's been really nice knowing you" or "I promise this isn't your fault" or even "bye" because he knows he can't be suspicious.
Besides, he's going to leave a note. Just a little slip of paper, nothing long and drawn out. He starts writing it at ten o' clock, the bottle of painkillers under the covers burning a hole in his mattress.
It's hard, too hard. His hand shakes and he's afraid he's going to cry, but he takes a few deep breaths because he doesn't want to die crying.
'To everyone who cares, sorry I couldn't.'
The note doesn't make much sense, but it's really all he can think of writing.
When he finally settles on that and places it carefully on his dresser, he glances at his watch impatiently.
11:30.
Tick, tock, time's almost up, the little voice in his head whispers, cruel and seductive and thank God, thank God, he's so sick of this, he's so sick of living.
He sits on his bed and isn't afraid, not really, and it's amazing. He's been afraid his entire life, but now, even when faced with death, which seems to scare everybody else terribly, he doesn't even care. Not at all.
It starts raining outside. David hates the rain, but he thinks the misery is appropriate for this situation, and he closes his eyes and listens to the rain pounding on the roof and thinks that this is the last time he's ever going to experience this noise.
11:55.
It's just about time.
He moves to get the pills, but freezes.
Someone is knocking on the door. "David? David?"
The voice isn't immediately familiar, but David recognizes it soon enough.
What's Martin doing here? The little voice is screaming in his head, telling him to pretend he's not here.
He stays perfectly still.
"Open the door, David, please. I need to talk to you."
Somehow, David is sure, Martin's found out. But that's impossible. They barely know each other.
Martin figures out, after a few seconds, that David's door has a funny lock, that it's basically open, and he bursts in and turns on the light.
David winces at the sudden absence of darkness.
"What are you doing?" Martin asks, almost accusingly, but mostly he sounds panicked.
"Nothing," David says, practically in a whisper. He clears his throat and says it in a louder voice. "Nothing important. Just homework."
"Right," Martin says, looking around the room for any sign of homework. Nothing. He shakes his head as if trying to dislodge troubling thoughts. David used to do that, when he was little, before he realized that the troubling thoughts would never leave him.
11:57. Martin needs to leave.
Leave, leave, leave.
"What's wrong, David?" Martin asks unsurely, and David smiles a grim parody of a smile, because he's out of practice.
"Nothing, really. But I do have to get on with doing my homework, so if you would..."
"I...I don't believe you." It's the most confident he's ever heard Martin sound, and he just stares, trying to make himself look like he's got no idea what's got Martin acting strange.
"What are you talking about?"
"You don't even have work out, David. I think maybe I know what's going on, and I want to help you."
David feels his fake smile cracking at the edges, feels his eyes prickle with tears, and no, no, no, he's not going to die crying even if he's not going to die at twelve o' clock.
"You can't help me," he says, and it sounds like a confession even if he didn't mean it to.
"David," Martin asks nervously, urgently. "Do you want to kill yourself?"
David smiles a real smile this time, even though his thinks it might still look a bit ugly. "No," he says, and it's a good lie, he thinks. "I really don't. What gave you that idea?"
"Just...the way you've been acting lately. I mean, I don't even spend much time around the house, and I'm worried. Your friends are worried too."
"No reason to be worried about me."
"I think there is. I'm not actually stupid. I know the signs, I know there's been something wrong but I just...haven't been able to confront you about it."
What a day, David thinks bitterly, to finally be brave and confront me. "I don't know what you're talking about," he says again, and this time it definitely is a lie. He's going to start panicking soon.
Martin crosses the room in a few steps and grabs something from David's dresser.
Oh no.
Oh no.
No, his note!
Martin reads it and looks inexplicably sad, and this is it. This is it. David's missed the appointment. Only he could fuck up so badly that he can't even get around to killing himself on time.
David buries his head in his hands, wiping at his eyes. "Please leave," he says. "I just want you to leave."
"I can't leave now! I can't...I can't just leave you when you're like this!"
"It's better this way, I swear. I haven't...I haven't been feeling so good lately, and, and, and...I know this is what I have to do. It'll be better without me, you'll see."
"No, I don't think I will see. I don't think anybody's going to see. There are people who love you, and I know that that sounds meaningless when you feel this way, but if you just get help..." Martin takes a deep breath, clearly shaken. "You'll see it'll be better. You'll feel better."
David laughs, just a little, harsh and small. "Yeah, right. I haven't been able to feel better in ages. I don't want to get help. I know what to do, I know how to get help."
"No, you don't, you're not in your right mind and I'm not going to leave you."
"I'm not crazy! I'm in my right mind, definitely. I know this is in my best interest, I know a world without me will be a better world. I'm doing everyone a favor."
"You're doing no one a favor and you know it. That's...you're just saying that. People will be sad when you go. If you go this way...just...don't. I know it feels hopeless."
"Yeah? How do you know?"
"Because I've felt this way before! And I'm not saying it'll be hard to feel better, I'm not, because it will be! I'm not saying treatment is fun to go through or anything, because it isn't. I'm not going to sugarcoat this, because you're not an idiot. But it's not...what you're doing now isn't as worth it as you think. You're going to miss out. I'm happier now, I'm doing what I've dreamt about for ages, and if I'd actually managed to kill myself when I tried, I'd never have gotten to where I am. I'm not saying I have a perfect life, but at least I'm not dead. I know you can't see a future where you don't feel this way, but there is one. David, I know there's a future for you, and I can get you help, I can drive you to a hospital right now and I'll get you help. I'm not...I'm not good at this, but there are people who are much better at talking people out of suicide than me."
David doesn't know when he started crying, because what Martin's saying is kind of making sense, but he can't deal with that, not when death's been his only ray of hope for such a long time. He's not crazy. He doesn't need a hospital. He already knows what he can do to make himself better. "No," he chokes out. "No, I'm sorry Martin, but you...you'll forget about me, don't worry. I just...this isn't something I can do anymore. I've been planning this for a long time. I have to die. This is what I was meant to do, I can tell."
"You're wrong!" Martin's getting worked up, and it's almost funny, but David doesn't feel like laughing. "This isn't what you were meant to do, that's just what you think right now. I...I want to help you. I really do. I'm not going to let you do this either way."
"But I have to."
"Die? You're not alone here, David. I'm here, and your friends are here, and we all care. I know maybe you don't really care about us right now, and I understand, but we'll be here, and in the future I think you'll thank me, even if right now you won't. I honestly think you're going to live a good life if you don't go through with this. Just...at least just give it a while, David. Please. Things can work out, even if you're not happy all the time, you don't have to be miserable like this, and you don't have to die."
"But I do." But David isn't sure anymore.
"When I was a little kid I always wanted to be a pilot. What did you want to do? What were your dreams?"
David doesn't know what to say. He wants to die, but it's not as all-consuming as it was earlier on. He doesn't think he can be happy, or even okay, but then, what if he can be? It's crazy, the voice in his head hisses. Crazy talk. "I just...normal stuff. I wanted to get a dog. I wanted to get married."
"But you don't have a dog. And you haven't gotten married yet."
"I noticed."
"So don't you think you should do that?"
"I haven't really considered it an option for a long time."
"But do you still want to do it? You know, student housing doesn't prohibit animals. I bet we could get a dog."
David hasn't ever had a dog before.
He'd kind of like one.
You can't have one if you're dead, the voice in his head says, suddenly calm and rational, not hysterical like it's been since Martin walked into the room and sent everything to hell.
"Terrence doesn't like dogs."
"I bet he'd make an exception for yours."
"I don't think." David's still crying. "I don't think I can do what you want me to do, Martin. I don't think I can live much longer."
"Well, if it means anything, I think you can. It probably doesn't, but why don't you come with me, and I'll drive you somewhere you can get help for a few days, and when you leave...we...I'll take you to the pet store, and you...you can get that dog."
He kind of does want a dog, and he hadn't remembered that in ages. He's been having trouble remembering he's ever wanted anything but to die. Maybe having a dog would make him feel better. Maybe a dog would protect him from this world that's left him unable to function.
Martin looks exhausted. David knows how he feels. He thinks maybe he can do this, which is something he hasn't thought in a very long time.
He says, "Maybe," and doesn't really know what he means by it, but Martin smiles.
He drives him to the hospital in his van.
David watches the sky.
After a while, it stops raining.
He doesn't stop crying, but he thinks some crazy thoughts during the drive, like maybe he can have a future.
Mostly, he thinks about how he's finally going to get a dog.
Characters: OC, Martin
Word Count: 3,392
Genre: Angst, Hurt/Comfort
Rating: PG-13
Warnings: Suicidal ideation, anxiety, brief self-harm
David doesn't think he can stay much longer.
He tries to think of his death, which at this point is pretty much inevitable, as an appointment. Whenever something that makes him want to die, there's a little part of himself in his brain that says, "Soon, it'll be time for your appointment, and you'll get better."
He really wants to get better, because at this point he's kind of exhausted. He's not empty, not really, but the problem is that he's overflowing, but never with good feelings. Feelings like hurt and sadness and anger and hatred. He's always so nervous.
He wishes he could just stop feeling, and then that voice in the back of his head that brushes against him like the wind says, "It's okay, you will, you will. It'll be time for your appointment soon. The clock is ticking, David."
The clock is ticking, David.
It's ticking closer and closer to the day when he won't be able to take any more of this.
He feels like he's always thinking and thinking and thinking about too many different things like when he's laughing with one of the other students and starts thinking about the heavy duty painkillers he's got stashed in the little cardboard box under his bed, the rope he's got curled up tight in his closet in case the painkillers don't work.
He's planning, still, getting up the strength, gathering every little and big misery to his chest until they just become a part of his heart.
Sometimes when he gets scared at night, when he wants to scream because of the dark making shapes and what he's sure are spiders skittering across his face even though he checks every single night to make sure there aren't any in his room, he presses his arm to his mouth and bites. Bites until he bruises and then until he bleeds, until there are tears of pain running down his face.
The pain gives him a release. It's so intensely physical that it helps take his mind off all the horrible thoughts that run through his head at all hours.
(What if that car crushes me today? I want to die on my own terms. What if the house catches on fire and all my friends die? I'm going to fail that test, aren't I? Maybe my mother's sick and hasn't called me about it yet, maybe it's my father, my sister, my brother. Maybe somebody's going to find out all the things that I feel, maybe they'll find out about the biting, the appointment, oh no, oh no, oh no. Did I leave the stove on? Is it sun outside, or rain, I hope it's not sun, please let it not be sun, I'll get cancer if it gets too bright, I'm sure of it, and I don't like sweat, it's like it's burning through me. There are spiders in the bath tub, I'm sure of it. What if that spider I couldn't kill was poisonous? I don't want to die in pain. Do I even want to die? That's a silly question. Your appointment is coming up, David, it's just a matter of weeks.)
Sometimes his chest gets tight and he burns all over and he can't breathe and he can barely think, sure his brain is exploding, sure he's going absolutely insane. When the panic attack is finally over he lies there on his bed, drenched in cold sweat, shivering, and thinks he must have finally gone insane.
It's not that everything in his life has gone to hell or anything, but school is a constant uphill battle. He's just not good at it, he thinks miserably as he tries to grasp concepts that his classmates managed to in much less time than him. He wants to make his family proud. They're already disappointed that he's not going to a big, important University anyway. He wants to succeed. But he's failing all the time, and the nervous feelings he gets always manage to somehow increase when he's at school. Sometimes he skips class. The guilt he feels is sometimes worth it, sometimes not.
His friends are nice, though, and David sometimes looks at them, smiling and laughing, or moaning about some new assignment, or kissing or whatever, and he's happy until some new intrusive thought runs through his mind.
David sometimes wishes he didn't live with his friends, though, because it makes it hard to detach from them, which is what he knows he has to do in his last couple months of life. And he does it. It's mostly easy when he feels so much like he's floating away down a hellish river.
There is, of course, Martin, the pilot who lives in the most awful part of the house. He's young and sometimes he talks to them, but he's dreadfully awkward. He's nice enough, though, and Lindsey, April, and Terrence actually seem to think he's rather adorable. David is fond of him too, the ghost in the attic, but he's glad they've never been friends.
Just one more person he won't have to hurt when his appointment is finally up.
At night, David always ends up lying in his bed and crying and sometimes bleeding in the dark, terrified of being alone and terrified of everybody else in the world at the same time.
Tonight, he thinks of his appointment, and then what will come after. He hopes that death is like soft velvet settling over his body, his consciousness.
He knows he'll never be afraid again, he'll never have another panic attack again, he'll never cry again, he'll never struggle again, he'll never feel the terrible darkness pushing against his ribs again.
(He'll never laugh over some stupid American comedy full of slapstick on the television with Terrence again. He'll never feel April hug him and kiss his cheek again, or hear her giggle again. He'll never be entranced by Lindsey's singing again. He'll never catch Martin in the kitchen late at night and listen to him chatter on about planes again. He'll never smile again. He'll never laugh again. He'll never be happy again.
Is he willing to trade all of that to just be gone? Is he willing to walk into the doctor's office he imagines his appointment to be in and listen to the doctor's advice that he take an entire bottle of painkillers, and fast?
Of course he is.
When he's dead, there will be no pain. There will be no fear. There will be nothing.
That is something he wants.)
Today hasn't been good. He's been having strings of bad days for such a long time now, months and months. The good times are always tainted by all the ugly thoughts in his head, crowding all around him and making clarity impossible.
"It's time," the little calming voice in his head says, the one that has been making the appointment for months now. "It's finally going to be over soon. Take two days to get everything in order, and then your misery will be over, forever. Finally. It's been a long time coming, David."
It's been a long time coming.
David smiles into the darkness.
He calls his parents when he wakes up in the morning after making that decision, feeling almost invigorated. Feeling better than he has in a while. It doesn't make him change his mind, though, it just makes him hope that this imaginary high stays with him for his last couple of days.
His mother is thrilled to talk to him because--he remembers with a pang of guilt--he hasn't spoken to her in ages. Even his dad sounds happy to hear from him.
David is their third child, the baby, and he thinks it's really too bad that he has to leave them behind.
He loves his mom and dad, he really, really, does, and he hopes they won't think he's selfish, hopes they'll understand that he just had to cut his life a little short because it all got to be too much.
You're a coward, he thinks all through his pleasant, normal conversations with his mom and dad. You're a coward, and they'll be better off without you anyway. You've never really been much of a son.
He doesn't call his sister and brother, but tells his parents to send them his love. He thinks the guilt will eat him from the inside out if he talks to any more members of his family.
He says goodbye to his friends on the last day, when the clock is ticking on his life. One last conversation, and they'll never realize what it was until too late.
Tick, tock, twelve o' clock, and that'll be the end, finally. Finally.
He gives Lindsey, April, and Terrence hugs and when they seem bewildered, because he's not as touchy-feely as them, he just laughs and says, "It's just a good day, isn't it?"
He doesn't say anything like "it's been really nice knowing you" or "I promise this isn't your fault" or even "bye" because he knows he can't be suspicious.
Besides, he's going to leave a note. Just a little slip of paper, nothing long and drawn out. He starts writing it at ten o' clock, the bottle of painkillers under the covers burning a hole in his mattress.
It's hard, too hard. His hand shakes and he's afraid he's going to cry, but he takes a few deep breaths because he doesn't want to die crying.
'To everyone who cares, sorry I couldn't.'
The note doesn't make much sense, but it's really all he can think of writing.
When he finally settles on that and places it carefully on his dresser, he glances at his watch impatiently.
11:30.
Tick, tock, time's almost up, the little voice in his head whispers, cruel and seductive and thank God, thank God, he's so sick of this, he's so sick of living.
He sits on his bed and isn't afraid, not really, and it's amazing. He's been afraid his entire life, but now, even when faced with death, which seems to scare everybody else terribly, he doesn't even care. Not at all.
It starts raining outside. David hates the rain, but he thinks the misery is appropriate for this situation, and he closes his eyes and listens to the rain pounding on the roof and thinks that this is the last time he's ever going to experience this noise.
11:55.
It's just about time.
He moves to get the pills, but freezes.
Someone is knocking on the door. "David? David?"
The voice isn't immediately familiar, but David recognizes it soon enough.
What's Martin doing here? The little voice is screaming in his head, telling him to pretend he's not here.
He stays perfectly still.
"Open the door, David, please. I need to talk to you."
Somehow, David is sure, Martin's found out. But that's impossible. They barely know each other.
Martin figures out, after a few seconds, that David's door has a funny lock, that it's basically open, and he bursts in and turns on the light.
David winces at the sudden absence of darkness.
"What are you doing?" Martin asks, almost accusingly, but mostly he sounds panicked.
"Nothing," David says, practically in a whisper. He clears his throat and says it in a louder voice. "Nothing important. Just homework."
"Right," Martin says, looking around the room for any sign of homework. Nothing. He shakes his head as if trying to dislodge troubling thoughts. David used to do that, when he was little, before he realized that the troubling thoughts would never leave him.
11:57. Martin needs to leave.
Leave, leave, leave.
"What's wrong, David?" Martin asks unsurely, and David smiles a grim parody of a smile, because he's out of practice.
"Nothing, really. But I do have to get on with doing my homework, so if you would..."
"I...I don't believe you." It's the most confident he's ever heard Martin sound, and he just stares, trying to make himself look like he's got no idea what's got Martin acting strange.
"What are you talking about?"
"You don't even have work out, David. I think maybe I know what's going on, and I want to help you."
David feels his fake smile cracking at the edges, feels his eyes prickle with tears, and no, no, no, he's not going to die crying even if he's not going to die at twelve o' clock.
"You can't help me," he says, and it sounds like a confession even if he didn't mean it to.
"David," Martin asks nervously, urgently. "Do you want to kill yourself?"
David smiles a real smile this time, even though his thinks it might still look a bit ugly. "No," he says, and it's a good lie, he thinks. "I really don't. What gave you that idea?"
"Just...the way you've been acting lately. I mean, I don't even spend much time around the house, and I'm worried. Your friends are worried too."
"No reason to be worried about me."
"I think there is. I'm not actually stupid. I know the signs, I know there's been something wrong but I just...haven't been able to confront you about it."
What a day, David thinks bitterly, to finally be brave and confront me. "I don't know what you're talking about," he says again, and this time it definitely is a lie. He's going to start panicking soon.
Martin crosses the room in a few steps and grabs something from David's dresser.
Oh no.
Oh no.
No, his note!
Martin reads it and looks inexplicably sad, and this is it. This is it. David's missed the appointment. Only he could fuck up so badly that he can't even get around to killing himself on time.
David buries his head in his hands, wiping at his eyes. "Please leave," he says. "I just want you to leave."
"I can't leave now! I can't...I can't just leave you when you're like this!"
"It's better this way, I swear. I haven't...I haven't been feeling so good lately, and, and, and...I know this is what I have to do. It'll be better without me, you'll see."
"No, I don't think I will see. I don't think anybody's going to see. There are people who love you, and I know that that sounds meaningless when you feel this way, but if you just get help..." Martin takes a deep breath, clearly shaken. "You'll see it'll be better. You'll feel better."
David laughs, just a little, harsh and small. "Yeah, right. I haven't been able to feel better in ages. I don't want to get help. I know what to do, I know how to get help."
"No, you don't, you're not in your right mind and I'm not going to leave you."
"I'm not crazy! I'm in my right mind, definitely. I know this is in my best interest, I know a world without me will be a better world. I'm doing everyone a favor."
"You're doing no one a favor and you know it. That's...you're just saying that. People will be sad when you go. If you go this way...just...don't. I know it feels hopeless."
"Yeah? How do you know?"
"Because I've felt this way before! And I'm not saying it'll be hard to feel better, I'm not, because it will be! I'm not saying treatment is fun to go through or anything, because it isn't. I'm not going to sugarcoat this, because you're not an idiot. But it's not...what you're doing now isn't as worth it as you think. You're going to miss out. I'm happier now, I'm doing what I've dreamt about for ages, and if I'd actually managed to kill myself when I tried, I'd never have gotten to where I am. I'm not saying I have a perfect life, but at least I'm not dead. I know you can't see a future where you don't feel this way, but there is one. David, I know there's a future for you, and I can get you help, I can drive you to a hospital right now and I'll get you help. I'm not...I'm not good at this, but there are people who are much better at talking people out of suicide than me."
David doesn't know when he started crying, because what Martin's saying is kind of making sense, but he can't deal with that, not when death's been his only ray of hope for such a long time. He's not crazy. He doesn't need a hospital. He already knows what he can do to make himself better. "No," he chokes out. "No, I'm sorry Martin, but you...you'll forget about me, don't worry. I just...this isn't something I can do anymore. I've been planning this for a long time. I have to die. This is what I was meant to do, I can tell."
"You're wrong!" Martin's getting worked up, and it's almost funny, but David doesn't feel like laughing. "This isn't what you were meant to do, that's just what you think right now. I...I want to help you. I really do. I'm not going to let you do this either way."
"But I have to."
"Die? You're not alone here, David. I'm here, and your friends are here, and we all care. I know maybe you don't really care about us right now, and I understand, but we'll be here, and in the future I think you'll thank me, even if right now you won't. I honestly think you're going to live a good life if you don't go through with this. Just...at least just give it a while, David. Please. Things can work out, even if you're not happy all the time, you don't have to be miserable like this, and you don't have to die."
"But I do." But David isn't sure anymore.
"When I was a little kid I always wanted to be a pilot. What did you want to do? What were your dreams?"
David doesn't know what to say. He wants to die, but it's not as all-consuming as it was earlier on. He doesn't think he can be happy, or even okay, but then, what if he can be? It's crazy, the voice in his head hisses. Crazy talk. "I just...normal stuff. I wanted to get a dog. I wanted to get married."
"But you don't have a dog. And you haven't gotten married yet."
"I noticed."
"So don't you think you should do that?"
"I haven't really considered it an option for a long time."
"But do you still want to do it? You know, student housing doesn't prohibit animals. I bet we could get a dog."
David hasn't ever had a dog before.
He'd kind of like one.
You can't have one if you're dead, the voice in his head says, suddenly calm and rational, not hysterical like it's been since Martin walked into the room and sent everything to hell.
"Terrence doesn't like dogs."
"I bet he'd make an exception for yours."
"I don't think." David's still crying. "I don't think I can do what you want me to do, Martin. I don't think I can live much longer."
"Well, if it means anything, I think you can. It probably doesn't, but why don't you come with me, and I'll drive you somewhere you can get help for a few days, and when you leave...we...I'll take you to the pet store, and you...you can get that dog."
He kind of does want a dog, and he hadn't remembered that in ages. He's been having trouble remembering he's ever wanted anything but to die. Maybe having a dog would make him feel better. Maybe a dog would protect him from this world that's left him unable to function.
Martin looks exhausted. David knows how he feels. He thinks maybe he can do this, which is something he hasn't thought in a very long time.
He says, "Maybe," and doesn't really know what he means by it, but Martin smiles.
He drives him to the hospital in his van.
David watches the sky.
After a while, it stops raining.
He doesn't stop crying, but he thinks some crazy thoughts during the drive, like maybe he can have a future.
Mostly, he thinks about how he's finally going to get a dog.