Turkey and rice soup.

“So here's a fascinating thing about death I hadn't really thought about~!”

“Okay.”

“I don't think most people can really think about it.”

“...well that was quick conversation. I'm going to go back to making dinner.”

“Wait wait, there's more to this!” Remilia attempted to keep his attention. “People in reality can't really imagine death.”

“How so?”

“I mean, as people by nature are pretty selfish, yeah?”

“Yeah.”

“We are sentient of our own existence. We can't stop thinking about us, alive and being here in the moment. We can't separate ourselves from it. So death is just us ceasing to exist.”

“Unless you believe in some sort of afterlife.” the author said.

“That's a load of hooey.” she sneered. “I grew up in a Christian community, I was FED this garbage.” She refocused on the discussion. “What do we imagine death as? Black? Nothingness? The pearly gates? All of this stuff is flawed, it's still something to imagine. We as humans... can't really imagine what it's like not to exist because by design we're always conscious of existing. We can't really cease all thought and VROOM, that's what death is like. We can't really think about what happens when death occurs because it just stops for us, and that is a level of nothing that we can't comprehend.”

“...this sounds like a discussion you'd see on Reddit.” The author sounded exasperated as he spoke.

“And this brings us to where we're at today!”

“Which is?”

“Why is the thought of not existing so enticing to you when you can't even imagine it?”

“Because existing hasn't worked out.”

“I mean it's had its perks, right? You've met some good people, played some good games, had some good food~.”

“Got laid.”

“Let's not talk about that, Pa.” Remilia reconstituted herself. “But the fact of the matter remains... you've been thinking about this a lot lately, haven't you.”

“The thought of suicide is always hovering around, let's be honest. I don't think it's going to go away.” he said.
“...so this is where we're at, huh.” She sounded tired.

“Don't give me that. You've been around long enough to know that it's never really left.”

“...I know, Pa.” The author was in the kitchen preparing dinner while Remilia laid on the couch, her feet kicking up in the air while she stared at him upside-down.

“Pa there's a bullet hole in the couch.” She was looking at the corner of the middle cushion.

“I'm aware.”

“You can't own guns for another year.”

“I'm aware.”

“Why is there a bullet hole in the couch?”

“It was there when we bought it.”

“You aren't lying, are you?”

“I'm not. It was there when we bought it.”

“Hmm.” She didn't know what to say. The monster was in the room again, its grip on the author tightening and she couldn't get it to let go.

“...you okay today?” she asked.

“No.”

“...okay.” Rhythmic knocks against the cutting board filled the room. “There's nothing anybody can do right now, I guess.”

“Pretty much.” She sighed at the response. She stared at the ceiling a bit while silence enveloped the room. Brief glances of sunlight made their way through the clouds in the sky and the closed blinds in the living room.

“...it's nobody's fault.” she said.

“I know.” he responded.

“You told them it was their fault.”

“I know.”

“You want to burn bridges, don't you?”

“Probably.” His brevity wasn't giving her an opening. Remilia sighed and turned onto her stomach and continued to watch the author's back in the kitchen.

“The less people around, the less people to guilt you into not doing it, huh?” The author said nothing. “I mean I get it, it's not like they were doing you any good right now. That's why we're talking.”

“...everybody has their own problems.” he responded.

“It's a good excuse not to ask for help.”

“Mmm.”

“But as we said though, it's not like you get anything from the help nowadays anyway.” She slung her scrawny limbs over the couch's armrest and let them dangle. “I know how it is. It's what I went through too, Pa. When the depression gets bad enough and you want to--”

“Commit suicide.” He said it so she didn't have to.

“Yeah, that.” She was a bit shaken. “I know one of the things I did was guilt myself into being alive regardless of how unhappy I was, because I couldn't bear the thought of disappointing everybody who cared about me. Who loved me. I didn't want to hurt them that bad.” The sound of a knife grinding on a cutting board was the only noise in the apartment. Neither said anything for a bit until Remilia broke the silence again. “But that sort of backfired eventually. All it did was eventually desensitize myself to the thought of it. I sorta stopped caring about hurting them altogether, ya know?”

“Can't say that I do.”

“You're lying again~.” Her patronizing tone struck a nerve with the author, as if she had the nerve to be patronizing in the first place. He didn't have the energy to snap at her though, and she noticed he didn't, either.

“I'm right, you know.” she continued. “And so are you. We went over this earlier, while the other things happened.”

“I'm aware.”

“If you were, I wouldn't be here reminding you, now would I?” Her tone was becoming increasingly assertive as she continued talking. “You don't know what you want anymore out of these people, do you?”

“Correct.”

“Talking about your problems isn't helping anymore. Either people don't say anything and you feel that horrible vindication that you were right in believing nobody cared. Or they extend their hand and you realize that you can't bring yourself to grab it anymore. You wanted them to do something while it still mattered, right?” Remilia stopped talking for a bit while the author turned on the water in the sink. He was filling up a pot.

“What are you making?” she asked.

“Turkey and rice soup.” he said.

“I don't like turkey that much though.”

“You can't eat anything.”

“Pfft.” The author finished filling up the pot. He set it on the stove top to begin simmering. He pulled the leftover turkey from the other night out of the fridge and set it on the counter. Remilia stared at his back while he was in the kitchen.

“There's a lot of things going on. We have your friends, who seem like good people bu—”

“Except the one.” he interjected.

“Right, except the one. She seems to bother you a bit.” She let out a sigh. “But people are trying to help, and now, well... it's too late huh?”

“...” The author had nothing to say.

“Even I know in the back of your head that you don't want the answer to that question to be a 'yes'. But you know it is, at least it is right now.” She flipped back over onto her back and sighed. “While I'll at least say a very real part of you doesn't want to be alive anymore, it's probably being made worse by the fact that you don't know what can help anymore either.” The author stopped working and stood there in the kitchen.

“...I'm just feeling tired. And empty.”

“And nothing can fill that. People saying they love you and that they care about you, your own feelings of self-guilt about taking their concerns for granted, your anger to blame somebody for any of it. Nothing's filling that emptiness to justify whatever it is you're doing or feeling now.”

“...yeah.”

“And regardless of that... there's nonetheless probably some real resentment that nobody takes it as seriously as they should until you're ready to give up.”

“......yeah.”

“I mean,” Remilia sat up straight as she continued to speak. “Nobody wants to be told not to jump when they're already at the edge of the building. Like, we could've avoided going into the building and up to the rooftop in the first place. They could've been told that it's a bad idea before they got that far.”

“Means a longer walk down the building to convince myself that jumping really wasn't a good idea.”

“Right~o.” She looked around the room a bit before she continued. “Those feelings of resentment are still there amidst the other thoughts, huh?”

“Yeah.”

“And those thoughts of resentment are why this is easier to convince yourself to give up.”

“Probably.”

“And it's not like those people reaching out to you will help, huh?”

“Will probably make it worse.” he remarked. Remilia's eyes had a bit of a dullness to them. She was tired, too.

“So what's the plan then?” she asked.

“I don't know.”

“Could avoid everybody until you hopefully feel better.”

“Whenever that will be.”

“Do you still care about your friends and what will happen to them if you're gone?”

“Not really.”

“Do you think you eventually will again?”
“Don't know anymore.”

“Well, I mean, you're gonna have to talk to them eventually, Pa. You can't talk to me forever about this.”

“'Forever' is a relative term.” She grimaced a bit and stood up. She walked over to him and turned him to look at the door and the window.

“Listen Pa, out there, there are millions of people. Millions of people who eat and poop and have things they shouldn't have, like responsibilities or opinions.”

“Like Trump voters.”

“Exactly.” she nodded triumphantly. “Eventually you're going to have to stop talking to me and talk to all the gay weirdo minority creeps that are your friends and—”

“Except the one.”

“Yeah except that one—and at least give them peace of mind.”

“Peace of mind from what?” The author was baffled.

“That they know what they've gotten themselves into and that they're idiots for putting their hopes in crazy people like us.”

“You're starting to sound as cynical as I am.” the author remarked.

“Look, I'm just sayin'.” she patted him on the back while she spoke. “They got to understand that you've hit a point where something's broke. What you want from people isn't working anymore and you don't know what you want. What these friends think they can offer isn't what you need and it wouldn't be enough regardless. But it's nobody's fault.”

“Okay but important question.”

“Shoot.”

“Does this mean I can't kill myself then?” he asked.

“I can't stop you, but I don't think you will yet.”

“Can I still guilt-trip people to feel better about myself in a hateful and cynical way?”

“Pa you're going to do that regardless of what I tell you.”

“True.” They stood there a bit in silence.

“Feeling better at least?” she asked.

“A bit.”

“Good, good~.” She paused a bit while she mulled over her words more. “I'm fishing the turkey out of that soup if I'm eating it.”

“You can't eat it.” he muttered. She groaned.

“Oh why you gotta be like this? This is child abuse.”

“You don't need food.” She slumped and walked towards the author's bedroom.

“Well fine. I'm gonna go to sleep. This is exhausting, you know?”

“Alright, good night.” the author said as he stood over the stove.

“You should go to bed soon too. You know your not-getting-enough-sleep is probably not helping this either.”

“I don't want to hear that from you with your sleeping habits.”
“Touché. Good night~!” As she went into the room to sleep, the author stood in the kitchen. His left hand was on the cutting board while he held the knife with his right. He stood there for ten minutes in silence, hesitating. Every day he still hesitated, but it's gotten a few seconds longer each day he has.