Happy New Year
Title: Happy New Year
Fandom/Original: Original
Pairing(s): None
Rating: PG-13
Warning(s): Suicide and mild language.
Summary: When my body is revealed to her, she would break down. Her aged hand would fly to her painted lips and she would begin to choke on a sob.
Notes
This was actually a second idea that I had for a New Year's one-shot. I had another idea, but I just don't think I could write it well enough to do it. And not to say this is as good as I was hoping. I'm fairly confident in this piece, it's just not what I had intended. So, please enjoy this rather dark outlook on the new year.
Happy New Year
I haven’t fallen asleep on New Year’s Eve since I was eight years old. Ever since that first year, I began to stay up late enough to at least see the ball drop. I’m struggling for that right now. My cat has gotten in front my face, sniffing my mouth. Am I drooling? I can’t really tell anymore. All I can hear is the gurgling coming from my mouth that has her absolutely intrigued. Deciding it’s nothing of importance, she jumps off the couch and removes herself from blocking my view.
Ten.
My eyes trail down lazily to the floor. In the bluish glow of the TV, I can see the remote which had fallen from my hand hours ago. Scattered around it were a few empty beer bottles whose brethren resided on the coffee table. They won’t have to inspect my stomach to know what my last drinks were. My friends will wonder what was going through my mind though. I never cared much for beer throughout my life. Too bitter and sometimes too biting, but it seemed appropriate this time.
I trail my eyes back to the TV. Times Square is on TV as always, the ball hanging mystically over the crowd of people. They were smiling and jumping up and down, anticipating the moment that would release them from the cold street and place them back in their warm homes to celebrate until the first sun of the brand new year. I almost wish that I could feel the warmth of the sun on my face tomorrow morning, reminding me of the good that still exists in this world, but I’m afraid a reminder like that will have come too late. I’ll be cold by the time it reaches me and attempts to rouse me from my slumber.
Those smiles…
Nine.
My mother will be ashamed, hurt, and bewildered. It’s like I’m a ghost already. I can see her rise from her chair to answer her phone. Her soft, gentle voice answering with a warm and sincere hello would be met with stiff formality, almost void of human emotion.
“Mrs. Brigham?”
“This is she.”
“Mrs. Brigham, this is Officer so-and-so of the Radcliffe Police Department. I think you might want to come down to the station.”
“Why, is someone I know in trouble?”
“It’s something I don’t really think is best discussed over the phone.”
“Al…alright…” Her heart would almost visibly sink to her stomach, already heavy with the subconscious knowledge that something was wrong. She had a sense for when things were horribly wrong and since I left had this sensation that something was off. Unfortunately, she was receiving the call for it.
Eight.
When my body is revealed to her, she would break down. Her aged hand would fly to her painted lips and she would begin to choke on a sob.
“Mrs. Brigham, is this-”
Her voice would croak, almost breaking as though she hadn’t spoken in years. Unable to push out her own voice to say my name.
Seven.
My sisters would be called by the police department, my mother too frantic and distraught to make the calls herself as she stared at my body. She would have demanded of the coroner to know my cause of death, which he would have blatantly provided.
“The COD is an OD on depressants. We believe it was a suicide.”
She’d shriek that they were liars. This was some kind of cruel, sick joke. That any minute, I would walk in, laughing at her. I’d tell her that she worried too much, she would get mad, but would be relieved that I’m okay. But as she stole glances at my cold form, she’d know the truth. That body on that slab was me. Her middle child was dead and gone from this world. And as that truth washed over her and pulled her into icy depths, she would struggle against the notion of suicide.
Six.
She’d protest that I was a happy child. Even when my father died at the age of thirty-four when I was only nine, I managed to keep smiling. She’d point out all my accomplishments in school, my successful career, how well I cared for my younger sister and respected my older sister. She wouldn’t fail to mention how much I deeply cared for Iris, my cat. She’d recall an incident that had passed recently where I was smiling and laughing.
There was no way her child was that unhappy as to claim their own life. It’s just foolish to think that.
It would be inconceivable for my mother to think that my smile was not genuine like those on TV now.
Five.
My hand has released the near-empty bottles I was clutching so desperately. The beer bottle splashed on the carpet, surely leaving a stain for the next tenant. I can almost hear it now.
“What’s this stain on the carpet?”
“The previous tenant dropped a bottle of beer and it somehow managed to stain the carpet indefinitely the night of the suicide.”
Let’s see you sell this place now. It will be mine forever, won’t it?
Four.
The other bottle was also near empty. It sprayed the six or seven more pills about the floor. Some dived beneath me as though aiding their kind in lifting me from this place. Others hid away beneath the coffee table as if ashamed of what they were doing to me.
Great. Even my assistants are turning away in shame at my death. But, I suppose it’s what I deserve.
Three.
I’m “watching” the TV again. The sound is not reaching my ears anymore, they’re already deaf.
I’m jealous, I’ll admit. I wish I could share those smiles with those people. Even though I know nothing of them and they would view me as a complete stranger. But upon closer inspection, I’m sure I would find a few false smiles like my own. False smiles that need repairing like mine had. Maybe if I make it through tonight, if someone finds me in time, I could.
Two.
That’d be nice. I could move to New York City even. Start a new life with Iris. Make new friends and maybe find some romances. I could hold their hands and be bouncing about in the crowd, staring up at the mystical ball that now holds my life with its descent.
If only someone would find me.
One.
Mom, call me, please. Make sure I’m okay. Then I can have my second chance. What about you, Claire? Aren’t you calling around to make sure your baby siblings are safe and sound for the beginning of the new year? Joan, surely you want to call to wish me a happy New Year since we couldn’t spend this one together.
Are you guys listening? Can you even hear me? Are you calling? I can’t hear. It’s getting hard to see. My eyes won’t stay open. I think I’m getting delirious.
Which is probably why the idea is sounding foolish to me now…
What difference would it make if I moved to New York City? I would probably wind up in a bad end of town with as little money as I have. My cat would probably be killed because of that. Iris doesn’t deserve that. And people don’t change from place to place. They’re always the same.
No, it’s better this way. I’m so goddamn tired.
Happy New Year!
I made it. The last vision I see is that ball falling and my life slipping away.
It wouldn’t have been different this year anyways…
Fandom/Original: Original
Pairing(s): None
Rating: PG-13
Warning(s): Suicide and mild language.
Summary: When my body is revealed to her, she would break down. Her aged hand would fly to her painted lips and she would begin to choke on a sob.
Notes
This was actually a second idea that I had for a New Year's one-shot. I had another idea, but I just don't think I could write it well enough to do it. And not to say this is as good as I was hoping. I'm fairly confident in this piece, it's just not what I had intended. So, please enjoy this rather dark outlook on the new year.
Happy New Year
I haven’t fallen asleep on New Year’s Eve since I was eight years old. Ever since that first year, I began to stay up late enough to at least see the ball drop. I’m struggling for that right now. My cat has gotten in front my face, sniffing my mouth. Am I drooling? I can’t really tell anymore. All I can hear is the gurgling coming from my mouth that has her absolutely intrigued. Deciding it’s nothing of importance, she jumps off the couch and removes herself from blocking my view.
Ten.
My eyes trail down lazily to the floor. In the bluish glow of the TV, I can see the remote which had fallen from my hand hours ago. Scattered around it were a few empty beer bottles whose brethren resided on the coffee table. They won’t have to inspect my stomach to know what my last drinks were. My friends will wonder what was going through my mind though. I never cared much for beer throughout my life. Too bitter and sometimes too biting, but it seemed appropriate this time.
I trail my eyes back to the TV. Times Square is on TV as always, the ball hanging mystically over the crowd of people. They were smiling and jumping up and down, anticipating the moment that would release them from the cold street and place them back in their warm homes to celebrate until the first sun of the brand new year. I almost wish that I could feel the warmth of the sun on my face tomorrow morning, reminding me of the good that still exists in this world, but I’m afraid a reminder like that will have come too late. I’ll be cold by the time it reaches me and attempts to rouse me from my slumber.
Those smiles…
Nine.
My mother will be ashamed, hurt, and bewildered. It’s like I’m a ghost already. I can see her rise from her chair to answer her phone. Her soft, gentle voice answering with a warm and sincere hello would be met with stiff formality, almost void of human emotion.
“Mrs. Brigham?”
“This is she.”
“Mrs. Brigham, this is Officer so-and-so of the Radcliffe Police Department. I think you might want to come down to the station.”
“Why, is someone I know in trouble?”
“It’s something I don’t really think is best discussed over the phone.”
“Al…alright…” Her heart would almost visibly sink to her stomach, already heavy with the subconscious knowledge that something was wrong. She had a sense for when things were horribly wrong and since I left had this sensation that something was off. Unfortunately, she was receiving the call for it.
Eight.
When my body is revealed to her, she would break down. Her aged hand would fly to her painted lips and she would begin to choke on a sob.
“Mrs. Brigham, is this-”
Her voice would croak, almost breaking as though she hadn’t spoken in years. Unable to push out her own voice to say my name.
Seven.
My sisters would be called by the police department, my mother too frantic and distraught to make the calls herself as she stared at my body. She would have demanded of the coroner to know my cause of death, which he would have blatantly provided.
“The COD is an OD on depressants. We believe it was a suicide.”
She’d shriek that they were liars. This was some kind of cruel, sick joke. That any minute, I would walk in, laughing at her. I’d tell her that she worried too much, she would get mad, but would be relieved that I’m okay. But as she stole glances at my cold form, she’d know the truth. That body on that slab was me. Her middle child was dead and gone from this world. And as that truth washed over her and pulled her into icy depths, she would struggle against the notion of suicide.
Six.
She’d protest that I was a happy child. Even when my father died at the age of thirty-four when I was only nine, I managed to keep smiling. She’d point out all my accomplishments in school, my successful career, how well I cared for my younger sister and respected my older sister. She wouldn’t fail to mention how much I deeply cared for Iris, my cat. She’d recall an incident that had passed recently where I was smiling and laughing.
There was no way her child was that unhappy as to claim their own life. It’s just foolish to think that.
It would be inconceivable for my mother to think that my smile was not genuine like those on TV now.
Five.
My hand has released the near-empty bottles I was clutching so desperately. The beer bottle splashed on the carpet, surely leaving a stain for the next tenant. I can almost hear it now.
“What’s this stain on the carpet?”
“The previous tenant dropped a bottle of beer and it somehow managed to stain the carpet indefinitely the night of the suicide.”
Let’s see you sell this place now. It will be mine forever, won’t it?
Four.
The other bottle was also near empty. It sprayed the six or seven more pills about the floor. Some dived beneath me as though aiding their kind in lifting me from this place. Others hid away beneath the coffee table as if ashamed of what they were doing to me.
Great. Even my assistants are turning away in shame at my death. But, I suppose it’s what I deserve.
Three.
I’m “watching” the TV again. The sound is not reaching my ears anymore, they’re already deaf.
I’m jealous, I’ll admit. I wish I could share those smiles with those people. Even though I know nothing of them and they would view me as a complete stranger. But upon closer inspection, I’m sure I would find a few false smiles like my own. False smiles that need repairing like mine had. Maybe if I make it through tonight, if someone finds me in time, I could.
Two.
That’d be nice. I could move to New York City even. Start a new life with Iris. Make new friends and maybe find some romances. I could hold their hands and be bouncing about in the crowd, staring up at the mystical ball that now holds my life with its descent.
If only someone would find me.
One.
Mom, call me, please. Make sure I’m okay. Then I can have my second chance. What about you, Claire? Aren’t you calling around to make sure your baby siblings are safe and sound for the beginning of the new year? Joan, surely you want to call to wish me a happy New Year since we couldn’t spend this one together.
Are you guys listening? Can you even hear me? Are you calling? I can’t hear. It’s getting hard to see. My eyes won’t stay open. I think I’m getting delirious.
Which is probably why the idea is sounding foolish to me now…
What difference would it make if I moved to New York City? I would probably wind up in a bad end of town with as little money as I have. My cat would probably be killed because of that. Iris doesn’t deserve that. And people don’t change from place to place. They’re always the same.
No, it’s better this way. I’m so goddamn tired.
Happy New Year!
I made it. The last vision I see is that ball falling and my life slipping away.
It wouldn’t have been different this year anyways…