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.

Remilia Bonheur.

“So uh, this is kind of a bit odd. I've never done this before.”

“Yes yes, it's a bit different than what you're used to.” she said.

“Are we really doing this?”

“Take it slow, it's not like anything can really go wrong.” The author was fidgeting as he sat on the bench. It was an early March weekday, a rare occurrence of the sun managing to fight its way through the Oregon clouds in a fruitless attempt to bring some heat. The chipper young girl next to him wasn't much for the cold weather despite her Nebraskan heritage, but nobody noticed due to her convincing impression of a Valley girl. Her vibrant blonde hair was messily pulled back into a ponytail, with tufts and bangs hanging forward to cover her gaunt, pale face being illuminated by small cheeks dabbed with blotches of color.

“...Remilia?”

“Yes, oh dear father of mine~?” Her voice had a bit of dramatization to it. The author couldn't look at her. He sighed a bit as he wondered what to say.

“I. I don't really know what to say. I don't really know what to say.”

“Take your time.” she had a patient tone to her voice.

“I'm... really sorry.” was all he said. “I'm just... sorry for this.” She smirked a bit and looked at her dainty legs swinging back and forth underneath the bench.

“I know you are. You are for a lot of things, Pa.” The author's face grimaced.

“Don't call me 'Pa'.” he muttered.

“Hmm? Why not?”

“It's what I call my old man.”

“Well, you're more of a father to me than my actual one. I'm here because of you, aren't I?”

“...This is going to get really weird, isn't it?”

“Yep, probably~!” The author turned to look at Remilia. She had a wide, dumb smile on her face. It was pure and honest, the construct didn't matter. She was born without a belligerent bone in her body.

“I guess,” the author mulled over his words. “I guess, I don't like letting this happen to you. I don't think it's your responsibility anymore.” She turned away and looked down.

“I had a feeling it would be about this.” There was a bit of resolution in her voice. “The thought of putting someone through the same awful things you grew up with. It hurts a lot when you get attached enough, doesn't it?”

“Yeah. Yeah, it does. I just... why am I doing this to you?” There was a moment of silence. The ambient noise of cars, a few stray birds, and some rustling branches were all that were filling the air. The girl broke the silence.

“I'm okay with it, you know?”

“Why?”

“Well... you made me that way, didn't you?”

“You shouldn't be okay with this.” The author was getting frustrated. “Nobody would be okay with this.”

“I'm a nobody, so I'm okay with it.” she responded. “Listen, Pa, I know what you're doing here. You're thinking about giving up again, aren't you?” The author sighed. He was read like a book. Not a book he'd write, because he had yet to finish any.

“Well, yeah. I guess I have been.” There was another pause. The girl's face scrunched and she looked at the author.

“No, I don't mean on me. Or on this. I mean GIVING UP.”
“Eh, fuck.” The author's tone would've been familiar to a shoplifter who just got caught. Remilia's face turned and it looked like she muttered under her breath.

“This again, huh?” she let out a deep breath as her voice became subdued. “It's this monster again.”

“Oh for the love of God, don't act so exasperated. You have no fucking idea what this is like.”

“You know that's a lie~.” And the author did. He knew that he was full of shit when he said that.

“Okay so you do.”

“THAT'S HOW YOU RAISED ME. SURPRISE.” She had a smug cartoonish grin on her face when the author looked over.

“Shit.”

“Oh why are you so bent out of shape over that? How could I not know? You make it so darn obvious, not even just to me, but to EVERYBODY.” she proclaimed to the park, standing up and spreading her arms. People in the park started looking over at the two.

“Like that guy.” she pointed. “And that woman over there. That dog sure as heck knows. All those people know how much of a debbie-downer you are!”

“Oh for the love of God sit down, you're making a scene you stupid child.”

“RUDE.” And with a 'hmph' she situated herself back on the bench. He placed his hand over his eyes irritated.

“Good God I forgot that you're a tactless bint.”

“Hey now. No need for that kind of talk.”

“Why do you always do this?” he asked. “Did you ever consider I don't talk to you about this because of how you treat it?”

“You mean like a big joke?”

“Yes.”

“That's your own fault and you know that too~.” As dimwitted and tactless as the girl was, she knew exactly what the author was thinking. She grew up with him, and often knew him better than himself.

“And stop calling me 'dimwitted', it's not nice.” she interjected into the narration.

“You are dimwitted.” he replied.

“And why are you writing about this? We talk a lot, so why choose to do it now?”

“It's... to maybe give me something to mull over later with. Something concrete.” Remilia smiled.

“So you're at least getting better about talking about it, right? That's a good first step.”

“It is, I guess.” At least he thought it was. He believed it with his heart that it was. The soul was absent though, and Remilia knew that, too.

“Of course I do, how wouldn't I?” she interjected again. The author sneered.

“You think you're cute.”

“I know I'm cute~.” she smugly admitted.

“Yeah well, I'm not sure what's happening either. I don't know how to feel about this.” Remilia was a bit confused by the author.

“Like you don't know what to do, or...?”

“No, I don't know how to feel.” he paused to figure out how to articulate his thoughts. “I can't react the way I want to, or the way I know I should. All this shit happens and all these people talk to me and there's just—”

“Nothing.” she said. The author sighed.

“...yeah. Not a damn thing.” His eyes glazed over a bit as they looked around. “I know I should care about this. About these people. But it just doesn't mean really anything to me, anymore. Nothing is there.” Remilia had a bit of a grimace as her head followed some children walking by.

“Well.” She paused. Her motormouth contrasted her contemplative thoughts. She understood the importance of each word she spoke and chose them carefully. “People go numb after seeing enough, going through enough.” Words rolled out more slowly than before. “You detach and stop feeling everything, you can't really pick and choose what. That's why it's scary when it happens.”

“Yeah.”

“And you know I don't like it when you get like this.” she said. “The monster's coming again, isn't it?”

“...yeah.”

“I know what the monster does to people.” her voice rang with a slight dullness and exhaustion. “I know what it was doing to me. And I know what it's doing to you.”

“Just be blunt with it. I want to kill myself again.” The author's bluntness was a weapon. He was tired of coming up with workarounds.

“Yeah, that thing.” she meekly replied.

“Look, the best I could hope for is to die while leaving as little of an impact on other people as possible. The less they care, the easier it is for me not to be guilt-tripped into putting up with this any longer for their sake. They'll be in shock day one, grieve through day three, be bitter at the end of the week, and come the following month I won't even be brought up. That is what I want to mean to people.” Remilia was unamused by the author's nihilistic rantings.

“Is it really.” Exasperation was oozing from her lips.

“Meh.”

“You're just tired.”

“You think?”

“I mean, I don't blame you.” She stretched and leaned back against the bench. “You have no self-worth. If you're no good to people, then what good are you, right? It's that logic.”

“...yeah, a bit.”

“It hurts a lot just being alive. BEING ALIVE FEELS TERRIBLE.”

“Well, for us.” he nodded.

“So we want to live through other people and avoid ourselves as muuuuuuuuuuuch as possible. If other people are happy because of us, then we're happy! Yaaaaay, everybody's happy!”

“Right.”

“Buuuuuuuuuut...” Her mood soured a bit. “We can try as much as we want, but we might be around people who won't ever be happy. You've been around some bad people most of your life, Pa. They're no good and you know it.”

“...right.”

“If we can't make other people smile, other people happy, then we're just stuck with our miserable selves. We're stuck with that hurt that comes from just being alive. We try our best to get past it, but it's still always gonna be there. And when it goes on long enough—”

“You become numb.”

“You start having conversations with yourself.” she added.

“I couldn't begin to imagine.”

“Without the company of friends you get stuck inside your own head and pull yourself apart. Like, I know I'm a good one. I met the other people in your head, they're jerks.”

“They're fucking pricks.”

“Right, so.” she readjusted her top straps underneath her coat. “You don't know what to do with people anymore, huh?”

“That's a way to put it, yes.”

“And you're tired of trying to figure something else out that might work this time.”

“Pretty much.” he bluntly stated. Remilia let out a sigh.

“But... this time it was bad.” she looked down. “Otherwise we wouldn't be here talking.”

“This time it got bad.” he said.

“This time it might be donezo for good, is what you're feeling.”

“I don't know what I feel at this point, honestly.” The indifference in his voice hid his anxiety poorly.

“Usually you just regress for a bit and then it's back to normal later.” Her bubbly disposition was becoming gradually subdued as the conversation continued. “Just like we always talk it out.”

“This time it seems like something finally broke. I don't know how to come back from this. Or if I want to.”

“If you can't connect with people anymore, you're isolated, and you're stuck with us.” she shrugged. “And you know they'll eventually find a way to shut me up for a bit.”

“Yeah.”

“Then you'll be stuck in here with just them, and that's—”

“When I'll probably call it quits.” She didn't really say anything in response. She just looked at the people in the park.

“We'll find a way to fix this, we always do.” she nodded reassuringly. “I'll get you out of here.”

“...hopefully.”

"You still mean something to somebody. I wouldn't be here telling you this if you still didn't believe it yourself, right?"

“...I suppose that's how that works.”

“You know that they can't keep me quiet for good. I'm too stubborn for that.”

“Far, far too stubborn.”

* * *

“Hey, I have a question.” he looked over at Remilia.

“Hmm~?”

“Do you think everybody can be forgiven? Deserves to be forgiven?” Her expression widened a bit at the question.

“...that's awfully progressive of you to ask, ain't it?”

“Yeah.” The author seemed a bit surprised at himself as well. “I suppose I've done a bit of growing up over the years.”

“Just a decade ago you'd be just like the rest of your family, unable to let a grudge go. I'm proud of you!”

“Grudges are too heavy to carry around for so long.” There was a bit of a tired resolution to his voice. “This shit gets exhausting after a while.”

“That's good, that's good~.”

“So answer the question.” Remilia rested her tilted head on her hand looking at the author, then turned forward.

“...I think I know what this is about.”

“Just answer it.”

“I think,” she rolled her words around in her mouth a bit. “I think, an important part of becoming a better person is learning that you aren't always going to be forgiven, and that you shouldn't always deserve it.” The author's vacant stare remained locked forward.

“I figured you of all people would be qualified to answer this.”

“Sometimes it's too much to ask of the person who was hurt to forgive somebody. It's not fair to them to expect that, even if you think you fixed the problem or that things are cool between you now.”

“Sometimes you got to take the L and move on.” he responded.

“And it's not always because the person you hurt is holding a grudge, but you know, you gotta just ask sometimes if it's... well...”

“If it's worth the effort.” Monotone punctuated the brevity of the sentence.

“Yeah.” she nodded in somewhat solemn approval. “It doesn't make you a mean-spirited or a spiteful guy if you think it isn't, too.”

“Just have to... move on.” he quietly said.

“Sometimes people just suck and they won't change~.” There was a fermenting bitterness underneath her chipper attitude. “I don't think everybody can be forgiven just because the lousy person became a decent one, ya know? Sometimes the people hurt or burned can't... what are the words...?”

“Develop the capacity or desire to forgive the people that hurt them.”

“Yeah, that.” She let a bit of silence settle before speaking again. “Sometimes even if you want to forgive somebody, you just, can't. Just because you became a decent person doesn't make things hunky dory. That doesn't undo what ya did, it wasn't something that happened fast enough.”

“That's probably where reality sets in a bit, I guess.”

“I think,” she paused. “I think if you can't get that person to forgive you, then you gotta forgive yourself. You know, for your sake. And, yeah, move on. I guess. I dunno.”

“I don't, either.”

“So it IS about this.” She sighed and turned to look at him, grabbing his shoulders to make him look at her. His dead eyes had a shutter of life in them as they avoided contact with hers. Her chipper disposition was set aside.

“Listen, you know I'm repeating myself when I say this, but you gotta let this go. You gotta stop beating yourself up over this.”

“...over what?”

“Pa.”

“...” The author remained silent.

“Lucas.”

“Oh fucking Hell call me anything else but that.”

“PROMISE ME.”

“You know my promises are no good.”

“PROMISE. ME.” She remained stubborn and resolute.

“I... can't.”

“Lucas. You gotta let them go, let her go.”

“I know.”

“But you can't.” she said.

“But I can't.” he said.

“Pa.”

“But I got to.”

“But you gotta.”

“I...” his once-monotone and lifeless voice started trembling into bitter unfortunate life. “I... I've got to let this go.” A strung-out sigh shook his throat. “Fuck. Fucking shit.” She shifted her hands from his shoulders to his face. Her soft palms rode his jawline while her thumbs roamed across his cheeks. Her own mask was managing to slip off, too.

“You know I can't watch you keep doing this to yourself. I know how much this is killing you.”

“Some baggage is too heavy to just leave somewhere.” he shakily replied.

“Sometimes closure is too much to expect. You know that.”

“I'm never going to know how any of it would've panned out, will I?”

“It's gone. They're gone. She's gone.” she said. He had a coughing fit, attempting to stifle himself. Her damp thumbs skirted across the surface of his face.

“You can tell yourself that eventually, right?” she asked. “It doesn't have to be now.”

“Eventually.”

* * *

“...so for a while there, you lost yourself, didn't you?” Remilia asked as they walked. The author groaned. “You started this conversation in March.”

“...that I did.”

“I told you they couldn't shut me up forever.”

“You really are incredibly stubborn.” he chuckled.

“...You almost did it though.”

“I did.”

“But you didn't. That's good at least.”

“Still can't bet on it if I will or not.”

“Well, good thing you're lazy~.” there was a slight hint of mockery in her solemn tone. “When you're tired you can't even put in the effort to give up.”

“Yet.”

“And I'll be there waiting like always~.”

“Because you're a meddler.” The the park was empty at this point as they strolled through it side by side.

"Hey, Pa." she looked over as she spoke.

"I told you to stop calling me that. And what?"

“...do you think I would've been a good daughter?” He was taken aback by the question. It made him uncomfortable.

“...yeah, I think you would've been a good girl. A good girl with awful, awful parents.”

“Well, you turned out—“

“Terrible.”

“Okayish.” she replied.

“Still a stretch.”

“Not your dad.”

“Okay I'll take it.” There was a bit more of silence between them.

"Hey, Pa." she said.

"I literally just told you to stop calling me that."

“You're Pa to me, that's all.”

“What is it?”

“Thank you for creating me.” she said as she smiled.

“You're welcome.”

"I love you."

"I know."

"And it means something?"

"Yeah." He stared at his scuffed-up boots as they walked.

Empathy.

This is going to be about empathy.

I don't write much anymore. Mainly because I feel like a fucking hack, but also because I can't motivate myself to do it unless I feel like bitching about something. I'm still very good at bitching about things, but I don't have much to bitch about lately. I don't really care much at all about much of anything lately. What is there that I could possibly exert effort over to talk or complain about? My problems? I got a Hell of a lot of those, but I don't much care at all about those anymore. It's really fucking tiring to give a shit about things you have no expectations of ever getting fixed. It's exhausting.

This is also going to be about being tired. About being exhausted.

When you stop caring about your own problems so much, it becomes important to have people who will. That sounds selfish, because it is, you prick. But desiring people to care about your problems is a human thing too, I guess. Problems are objectively still problems. If you stop caring about them, it doesn't stop making it a problem. I stopped caring about my car getting fixed and getting insured, but that son-of-a-bitch still cost me 68 dollars to get it towed to my new apartment, and it'll still cost three to four-hundred dollars to get it fixed while it sits out there being an obtrusive piece of shit inconveniencing my life. Just like I stopped caring about my friends and family but those assholes are still in my life, being people and shit, all up in my fucking business like they own the place.

But I can't be bothered to care about most of them anymore. If you're reading this, yeah, you. And you. And maybe you. Not you, though, I wasn't friends with you in the first place, you're mostly just there. And not you, you're just a dick. I remember when I tried going out of my way to force myself into people's lives because I know they wouldn't. Nope. Not doing that shit anymore. Waste of my time. If they have business somewhere else, then go do you. If there's shit between us, I don't care enough to fix it anymore, that's on you if you want to. None of this is inherently the other party's fault, I just don't really want to bother anymore. People lose the ability to connect with others. They get burned out too much, or they get tired of the upkeep. Or maybe that person's perceived value just drops and you lose the desire to make an effort. Sometimes it's all three.

You get tired of how much people value you or how open they aren't about it. And when they decide to make an effort, is it your obligation to let alone want it anymore? Was too much damage done in the first place that all you could do at that point is shrug? I've been beaten up my entire life in a whole manner of ways. At first, empathy something I've wanted to enjoy with people my entire life. Connecting with people, trusting them, that shit is great. It's wonderful. It's liberating. But when you get slapped around often enough, empathy becomes scary. You're nervous about people treating your empathy like shit, underappreciating it.

Your empathy becomes something you timidly offer forward, hands shaking, not making eye contact. Hoping the person thinks it's good enough, hoping you're not doing anything wrong approaching them. Are you pitying them? Being too direct? Not direct enough? Even looking them in the face you're fucking terrified of it being rejected again. You want it to be appreciated so much and paradoxically don't think it's worth anything. You can be close to crying because you think you relate to that person so much that it hurts the living Hell out of you. You're scared of people taking your delicate, dainty little emotions and throwing them into the fucking wall like the second-born child of two abusive alcoholics who found out you've been lying about your grades for a whole trimester because you were afraid they were going to slam you into the wall again, and I was right. Oh hey I'm projecting again.

Or significantly worse, and even simpler than that, people just ignore it because it doesn't mean anything to them.

Eventually empathy stops being a desire and it starts feeling like something you should do. You don't want to empathize with people because you legitimately care about them anymore, you do it because you know it's the right thing to do, and solipsistic feelings like alleviating your own guilt or obligations becomes the motivator. But even then, people are still kind of indifferent and then you sort of realize that being a selfish bastard is easier and you eventually just stop altogether.

I'm projecting a lot, but I suppose that's all my writing is good for nowadays. God forbid it be for anything constructive.

I've just sort of disconnected myself to the thought of being relevant to, well, anybody. When you yearn for a validation of worth from people and hardly ever get it, you just get tired after a while. And when you're finally surrounded by reasonable adults who might actually care, you've already stopped caring. There's really nobody to blame, that's just sort of how it is. The internet's a terrible place to expect that shit from, too. You're nothing but a shitty character on a TV show. The safe-zone for people where someone's value, someone's worth is in a screen name and the opinion attached to it. Nobody cares if there's actually somebody on the other side of it. It's so goddamn easy to just interact with each other and feel that's good enough without having any of the responsibility to empathize or occasionally treat somebody like a human being. Hell, the only reason I attempt to empathize with people anymore is honestly just to reassure myself that I'm still a decent person, I don't give half a toss what actually happens. Phantom empathy is easier than actually caring because that requires commitment.

It's not like people haven't tried. Maybe they just didn't try hard enough, or they were too late. Maybe they tried and they just fucked it up constantly, DAD. But I'm just projecting again. Maybe a functional person would've responded properly.

When a person has had such a strong desire to just empathize and connect with people his entire life, to make others happy however he can, what happens when he doesn't want that anymore? What does he have left to define himself by? I have felt like I've meant nothing to people my entire life. My entire life is my desperate attempts to empathize and care about people and mean something to people, and people have never been receptive, have never cared about me, never helped me. They've been indifferent. Hell, they've been exasperated by it, burdened and angered by it.

I used to be a good person. I used to be a good kid who loved people, who tried his hardest to make people happy. And it's barely meant anything to anybody. I am empty. A vessel that only exists to be validated by other people. Half the reason I think I go on these bleak and nihilistic rants is to fulfill some self-defeating prophecy that nobody is listening, nobody gives a shit about any of this and I'm only here talking to validate this isolation and fucked-up absence of worth in my head so I can give in further to it. That anything said here means absolutely nothing. It's become a well-versed act, almost a mantra because I've become so desensitized to bringing it up constantly. I've hit a point where I'm tired of it.

So what does this all mean? I don't frankly know. I doubt anybody will read it, at least I doubt the people who should will. And even if they did, I've sort of surrendered to the thought that anything wouldn't come of it anyway. I'll wake up tomorrow and go back to my dead-end job like nothing ever happened.

Empathy is hard. If people haven't done anything yet, why would they now? Maybe out of obligation or guilt? Hah.

Apathy.

“Tonight's 'Talking Points' memo: Was Hitler onto something about mandatory IDs for non-Christians, and how can Donald Trump learn from it?”

*click*

“How not caring enough about EVERY tragedy makes you no better than the terrorists themselves, more at 11.”

*click*

“Another shooting has occurred in Colorado and Texas, see why liberals are stopping our lone hero with a gun from showing up and putting a stop to these violent crimes and how the irony is completely lost on us because our gun laws already don't exist he--”

*click*

“I thoroughly believe that every white cis person in this country is a part of the problem, whether they're aware of it or not. It's not my job to educate them on their ignorance, only to condemn them for their stupid--”

*click*

“See how entitled millennials are while we sabotage their future because of how badly we've fucked up. Yes you can say 'fuck' on television no--”

*click*

No more of that for me, my heart can't take it. Is it okay? Do I have to feel ashamed for not caring about everything as much as other people? Because it sure as Hell feels like I should. Lately whenever I talk to people, the only thing that comes to mind is how much I'm not caring about whatever happened in some distant country I will never go to, about some child getting shot to death again for the fortieth time, or the ever-collapsing black hole of rational thought also frequently referred to as the American political system.  And I don't mean a singular child dying repeatedly.  Does that happen?  There would either have to be some incredible science or fucked-up witchcraft to be making that shit happen. 

I mean, it's not like I don't want to care. But it's just so gosh-darn difficult to. Let's examine one small instance where this came into play. FACEBOOK.  People remember the attacks that occurred in Paris. I mean to this day, I still really don't care to think about the details, but it happened. People died, and it was sad, yes. But a few things that I noticed. ...a few select groups of people were getting upset because others were either using a flag filter for their profile picture in remembrance, or because it was apparently stealing Lebanon's tragedy thunder when something or another blew again in there for the umpteenth time. This entire experience was enlightening to me, the impassive viewer. You know what it taught me?

Fuck people who care too damn much, and fuck their FEELINGS.

Empathy is something that is seriously overburdened in this day and age where everybody should care about everything and we should all be strong and open-minded individuals and should strive for social equality and the such, blahblahblah. If you don't care, you're contributing to the problem. Because we cared about the attacks in Paris, it contributed to the problem of the westernization of social media since we're not paying attention to other regions in the world that simultaneously were awash with grief at the same time. Like Lebanon. Or for the people mocking the others who were too busy chasing Lebanon's ambulance to notice, Kenya where somebody shot up a university and killed 148 people, because we ALL remember that on the news. Oh, I can get more, it's not difficult. In this day and age of over-exposure to every shitty event occurring all around the world? You bet your fucking ass that we can go further down the rabbit hole.

Instead though, let's take a healthy dose of “not give a fuck” and take this: just because you can care about something, doesn't mean you should. Empathy is a finite resource. It's the reason a secondary stress disorder like compassion fatigue exists. People get burnt out on their feelings, when they're forced to care too much too often. A lawyer has to deal with a man who just lost his daughter in a car accident; to the man, that's like trying to navigate an issue during the worst day of your fucking life. To the lawyer, it's Tuesday. And to the news, it's every day.

In this day of the internet, everything is faster. Gathering of information, networking, everything is sleeker, better, immediate. Unless you use Century Link, in which case it randomly drops and slows down. But we have a generation, the millennials, raised on this information superhighway. But the issue with that is that for people seeking a cause to rally behind, they quickly learn how much of a problem it is. Media outlets make it that much faster and easier to get information to you, and to a generation diagnosed with ADD, overexposure occurs. And if there's anything to take from what I'm going to say that is absolutely true, this will be it:

Overexposure to the media only breeds two things. It's either apathy, or contempt.

If you are bombarded with information relentlessly long enough, you're going to go numb to cope, or it's going to breed that cynical, malicious fire and it's going to consume you. Why the Hell else would people get upset over a fucking flag backdrop on Facebook when people are just trying to memorialize an event? It becomes a switch people can't turn off, where they look for the cause, the fight in everything that they can look for a fight in, where they look for the negative connotations. What paranoid, fucked-up, hateful world have you created in your head-canon where complacency or ignorance is misconstrued as malicious intent?

Simply put: why am I condemned for not caring enough? What is enough? Not everybody has time for that shit. I gots shit to do. Like sifting through pornography or posting Star Wars spoilers on the Splatoon Miiverse.

It can take something really fucked to make somebody realize the mistake they've made when caring too much about something. It's easy to put your empathy in a statistic or a news article; it's fucking easy to empathize with Lebanon when it's not at any of your actual empathetic expense. Once it gets personal though, that shit ain't so easy now is it? How many times have you seen somebody bring up a tragedy in their life, or post about it online, and you just offer your courtesy care? “Don't worry, if you need anything, I'm here to talk” you say. Then that person's now in your life, talking about all the terrible shit that's happened, and whenever something goes wrong again, you have to put up with that person again. Like when you find out that they lost their job. Or their girlfriend broke up with them. Or a family member died. Or they got mayo on their sandwich when they said 'no mayo', oh the humanity of it all! Then you go “Shit, this empathy crap is harder than I thought. I didn't actually care, I was just trying to be nice.” Oh, but you would NEVER say that, right?

Listen, it's okay not to care about people. It's okay not to care about things. It doesn't make you a bad person. People only have so much real estate for empathy. Not everybody has it in them to care about every single fucking terrible event that happens in the world. That person you're just sort of friends with, you don't have to let them into your life and place serious personal value in them if they're not important enough. You aren't a villain for it. Your empathy deserves to be taken care of and respected by other people for what it's used for. Apathy isn't necessarily evil, sometimes it's being your shield keeping out all that awful shit from making you want to kill yourself.

Care about what you can to the extent you can, it's not someone else's place to tell you what it should be and how much.

Unless it's something really fucking stupid like being an MRA. Fuck those guys.

Closure.

Okay, so I just feel like saying something here. I haven't written in a while, so I'm probably going to be scraping the bottom of the barrel for things to say. Today at work I had a rather surreal moment where I was doing stocking. Being a cog in the jumbling retail machine, I was putting out Easter merchandise while Santa Baby was playing over the speaker system. The only thought I had at that moment was “If the cognitive dissonance was any stronger, I would be able to bend time with my mind.” But right, let's talk about suicide. That seems appropriate for this time of the year, doesn't it? Might seem a bit of a dark subject, so let's brighten it up with something. Like kittens. Except instead you're thinking of suicidal kittens and I've now just injected the most horrifying and depressing imagery possible into your head. Alright, nevermind. But stay with me, there's more to this.

I have a tremendous talent of being incapable of understanding the effect I have on people, the aura of subdued apathy and depression I seem to emit. I'm desensitized to a lot of the things that have occurred in my life and whatever bleak outcomes they'll have, but I tend to forget that the average person is not. So if I nonchalantly bring up that I'm going to be alone on Christmas, that's a bit depressing to the listener. If I bring up that I haven't seen my mother in what's going on seven years because she's an alcoholic that's become consumed by addiction, then that's extremely depressing to the listener. If I bring up how starting from my birthday that the following week is probably the hardest week of the year for me because on top of shitty birthdays and divorce/poor person-related events that I tried to commit suicide a week before Christmas a decade or so ago, that isn't depressing to the listener because at that point they've probably left. Whoops.

Now let's talk about my mother. Let's get the crass, blunt comment out of the way first: I don't care about the fate of this woman. There are two reasons it's relevant, though. The first is that it will give closure to everybody if this woman died. Ever have those moments? Let's draw some parallels here with far more trivial situations that in no way bare similar weight but can still warrant comparison. Little Billy has a crush on Amanda at school. Every day he wonders how she feels about him, if he has a shot at getting into her pants, if it can work, when would be the right “friend moving into SO” time period to ask, all of that. But instead he doesn't do anything, he just goes home and masturbates and never gains any resolution on the topic and never brings it up with her for a long time. Then when he finally does, the cunt shoots her down and Little Billy is heartbroken. But despite the pain of having his heart broken, he doesn't have to worry about that stupid shit anymore and the realizes that he's still in school and can wait until college to get some pus—okay this is getting derailed, but the point is that even with a grim resolution, the feelings of ambiguity, concern, doubt, and questions are answered, that's not taking your time up anymore. You can stop stressing over the outcome of shit if it just happens, and even if it ends poorly it's done.

Closure is the word that's important here, which is the second point. I will seek closure for what has transpired in my life from her. I don't expect her to accept responsibility, I don't expect to forgive her, I don't expect it to motivate her to fix her life. That is none of my business. It shouldn't have to be. But people carry baggage that they didn't deserve to be burdened with, and I'm giving it back to the person who made me stuck with it. They can either carry it with me or let it crush them to death. With all the skeletons I've kept in my closet over the years, can you realistically expect a broken person who can't even fix things under normal circumstances pull themselves together when they've been given an immeasurable amount of guilt, hatred, and regret to deal with? Probably not. If my mom is anything like me, then she won't. I know I don't have the constitution to carry this shit; I've been trying for half of my life and it's already almost killed me several times. It's been said that what doesn't kill you makes yourself stronger. To somebody who's struggled with and attempted suicide many times in his life, what that means is that he's going to try a bit harder the next time he considers it until he gets to the point that he succeeds.

In a lot of fundamental ways, people don't change. But that doesn't mean they can't. My mother did not change, and it's killing her for it, slowly and agonizingly in a fucked-up, twisted way of karmic retribution. Hell, most people in my family have not changed, and if they did, it's long after the damage was done. My uncle managed to save himself from drug and alcohol addiction, but his clock is ticking and his time is close to being up. It's easy to be wrapped up in embittered cynicism and say that people don't change, but most of the time those people either haven't been gripped with the disease of depression, or that they're unaware that it's the demon that's killing them. What I have is a disease. I have no choice but to change. It's a cancer of the soul, the ever-present hollow noise, the ever-looming cloud that needs to be parted. Adapt or die, that's the ultimatum here.

And my brother holds this philosophy and told me to prove him wrong or he'll have a good laugh that he was right, which by proxy that means “stay alive” because he'll be right if I drop dead and smother out this pointless existence on my own terms, and he'll have a tough crowd to crack some jokes at. Well, that's not true, I'm not having a funeral, I don't understand that shit. If people want to pay respects to me, they can do it on their own time. Don't have a gathering around my corpse and think that does anything, I've moved out of that house already. The hell do you expect me to do, shake your hand and nod approvingly because somebody has their hand up my ass puppeteering me beneath the coffin?

Okay, what I'm trying to tell you folks is... I don't know, go fuck yourself and YOLO or some shit. People die, several of them by their own volition. People will fuck up their own lives irreparably and things will never get fixed, and the only closure you'll get is the knowledge of them failing completely, learn to live with it. But that advice is to the people watching. To the person living that, cling onto that tiny hope that you can change what kind of ugly, selfish, useless fuck-up you are and turn things around, even if the time and effort required will be what kills you.

Because if you're anything like me, you will always hate yourself. But learn to hate yourself enough to want to change, but not enough to think that things can't be turned around.

Merry fucking Christmas, you unfortunate and hopeless pricks.

Anger.

Mommy's gone missing and didn't take you with her. Ice cream falling off the cone onto the ground on a hot summer day. Seeing the new toy in the store that mommy wouldn't buy for fear of spoiling you. That mean kid kicking over your blocks and he didn't get in trouble. Getting too much homework in the class you hate. Going to bed at 10pm. Being grounded because you got a D in a class. Your older brother hitting you for stealing his Game Boy to play it without his permission. The pack of girls at school laughing at you for your acne and as soon as you look at them they try to stifle their giggles because they don't even have the decency to laugh at you in your ugly face.

Mommy getting drunk and keeping you up the night you have a test at school the following morning that you need to pass or you fail the class. Being forced out the house to play while mom and dad talk about how she overcharged the credit card again and we're going to lose the house now.

Having to awkwardly talk to the police about how mom got a bruise on her forehead and why dad is bleeding from his hip while both parents try to guilt-trip you into believing the other. Mom won't love you anymore if you don't believe her, dad will leave if you don't believe him. Listening to the bile your mother spew while she cleans up the house and how your father is the cause of everything wrong in your life. Remaining silent out of fear of getting the living Hell beaten out of you. Moving and losing all your friends because your family couldn't keep things together.

Wanting to have your girlfriend over but you're too ashamed of your family to introduce her, so you don't.

“How bad can your parents be?” she asked.

“I just don't want to complicate things.” you respond.

“Can't I sleep over once?”

“They'd make a scene.”

“Are they that unreasonable?”

“Hey, how about I meet your parents?”

“Point taken, new subject.” Her parents were worse and her father drunkenly knocked her from room to room. Staring at her pale beautiful face tarnished with a bruise below her ice-blue eye. Wanting to tell her things that will be okay, but knowing your words will come across as naive and empty because you don't know everything.

Being held down and stripped, and stripped of your dignity and sense of safety. Not being able to tell other people about it because you're just one social outcast afraid of the entire network of assailants catching wind of it, and because nobody would believe you as a result.

Your girlfriend growing concerned and depressed. Becoming overwhelmed with embarrassment and shame at the slightest sexual provocation. Wanting to talk to her about what your intimacy fears stem from because you're not implying she's unattractive, but you can't so she thinks that anyway.

“...I know I don't dress or see myself particularly well.” she said.

“That... that's not it. That has nothing to do with this.”

“You know how hard it is for me to be assertive with these sorts of things.”

“Don't even get me started.”

“And when I finally want to, this is what happens.”

“Well, I just...”

“Don't find me attractive?”

“No, dammit. It's not that, I said it's not that.”

“...is there actually somebody else? Somebody better?”

“What, NO.”

“Then where is this all coming from?”

“I...”

“Something's happened and you're not telling me.”

“Son of a bitch.”

Learning that she's been distant after coping with the death of her mother and didn't bother telling you until weeks after it happened. Not being able to tell her you're hurt in a rational manner. Letting the situation escalate that much.

"...We're in trouble, aren't we?" you ask.

"Probably."

"...I don't think we're going to make it."

"...Probably."

Watching her walk into her house out of your life and wanting to stop her but realizing you shouldn't.

"I'll see you around." you say.

"Alright."

Lying on the bathroom floor after throwing up and being incapable of getting up because of the vicodin whiplash. Thinking how big of a fucking loser you must be that you couldn't even kill yourself properly. Wondering how you can take things this seriously at 16 years old as you lay sprawled out in a daze. Having your mother come home and be none the wiser. Nevermind, she noticed that some of the vicodin's gone missing and that you should lie to your doctor to get more. Resentment at being forced to move, despite not being able to rationalize why you'd want to stay in the first place because of the personal Hell that was created at that town, at that school. Well it was personal, familiar, even if it wasn't necessarily safe.

Having your mom stop showing up to work just because she felt like drinking and didn't bother calling in so she loses her job and one anchor of stability again. She drinks more. She calls you a fucking naive piece of shit and hurls a potted plant at your head to get you to leave her alone. Your brother calls the police, when she gets out of jail the following morning she walks to somebody else's house to start drinking again and has her uncle make violent threats on her own son for getting her arrested. She comes home and stabilizes if only for a bit. She tries to run to your cottage out back, and your boiling blood spills out for a moment.

“What the fuck are you doing with yourself? Look at what you're doing to us, to yourself. You're going to fucking die if you keep doing this. Do you want to fucking die?”

The quiet child finally turns and it engulfs her own anger and stifles it, breaks her spirit. You move out, you leave and that fire's set to burn without your intervention anymore.

Wanting to go to college and be a productive student, but being afraid to even walk into class if you're a few minutes late. Sleeping in the car to pass time, and inevitably drop out. Having a breakdown and being able to tell your father for the first time that you have problems you need help with, and two months after being put into the hospital for suicidal ideations he tells you you're better off killing yourself. Your boiling blood almost pours out completely.

“How did that even turn out?”

“He calmed down and apologized for getting upset before I left the house.”

“And if he didn't?”

“I probably would've left to go commit suicide.”

“...yeah?”

“I had it in my head planned out. Get a bunch of over-the-counter meds and liquor, drive down to the ravine, and wait until the cocktail takes me and I would've stopped floating eventually.”

“Wel--”

“And that time it wouldn't have been JUST out of apathy and wanting to die.”

“......yeah?”

“I wanted to spite him and ruin his life.”

“...”

“End both of ours. Get the peace and quiet I always wanted, and leave that massive disfigured scar on him, hoping it never heals and that he'll pick at it enough that it'll kill him too.”

“......”

“And I don't think I can ever tell him that. That things will probably never be okay between us for it. I don't ever want the capacity to feel, to think that way again. I probably should tell him that. But I don't think I will.”

In his hands, it was the urge to do what matters most but the inability to regret or cope with the fact that he couldn't.

Depression.

He's not entirely sure when he wakes up or when he's asleep anymore, all he knows is that it's probably a different day. Somewhere between nine-o-clock and noon he becomes aware on a slightly more conscious level. He remembers seeing the clock before that though. He lies in a humid daze drifting in and out of his own thoughts until that becomes tiring enough that he's willing to overcome his physical exhaustion just to ignore it for a while. He stays in his room until the rest of the house is empty. He gets something to eat, anything that's the furthest from nutritional value as possible. He wants to learn how to cook, but he's willing forgo effort and health for the sake of convenience. Then he steps into the bathroom, and there's a stranger staring at him.

“It's me, I'm your conscience asshole. Look at yourself. You got up and ran away, expecting results and nothing's happened. What the Hell are you doing so far away from home?”

“But...” He paused. “This is my home... isn't it?”

“Why the fuck do you need to ask me, you slob? Get in the shower, I'm tired of looking at you for the moment.”

“Just for the moment?”

“Don't you have some important failing to do soon?” He got into the shower and stood there. He contemplated whether or not to shave that day. He didn't. He got out of the shower and dried himself off and put on the same clothes he always wore, just cleaner. He got up and grabbed his phone. He put on his best mask and called the place he applied to.

“Oh, we're not hiring yet. But give me your name and your number, we'll keep you in our thoughts.” His phone number could be known by half the county at this point, but nobody would call. He thought they might because it's a different day of the week, though. He texted his family about his car, expecting that he might actually be able to get it after being broken down for nearly a year. He got no response, but he thought he might get one because it's a different day of the week.

“...so now what?” he asked his conscience.

“No but seriously. What the Hell ARE you doing here? Didn't you just decide to run away?”

“W-well, I had to.” he reasoned. “Being there was killing me.”

“Why?”

“B-because I'm... I'm depressed.”

“Oh Jesus, here we go again.”

“What am I supposed to do?” he asked.

“Listen here,” his conscience began. “Everybody has their problems. Most people handle them like reasonable adults. Are you an adult?”

“I think so.”

“Alright, better question. Do you think others see you as an adult?”

“Um...”

“The answer to that is no. You're not one. What did your dad call you again?”

“Um...”

“You remember right? Say it out loud. Come on.”

“...a fucking loser who should kill himself.”

“Do you think that's accurate?”

“Can we stop talking about this? Please?”

“Now answer me this. How much longer can you keep telling yourself that you're too depressed to do anything before it stops being a reason and that it turns into an excuse? Before you can just concede and accept that this is it for you?”

“B-but I can't now.”

“Why the fuck NOT?”

“Be... because I have responsibilities now.”

“YOU DON'T FUCKING DESERVE THEM.”

“Responsibilities aren't something someone deserves.” there was a bit of resolve in his voice. “People just have them. I have them now, and that's... that's just how it is.”

When the man decided to go to try sleeping, it was well past the time any reasonable person would be up. But despite how exhausted he was, he couldn't bring himself to sleep. He lied in his bed, his whole body trembling for little to no reason and it stirred his blood enough to keep him awake. He could not feel his hand. And he was incapable of doing so for a significant portion of the day.

“I suppose you're going to ignore that because you're a coward.”

“Nothing's wrong. It's going to be fine.”

“Don't show optimism in the stupid places where you should admit when you're actually in trouble.

“Can't I sleep?”

“Clearly not if you can't even stop fucking shaking.” He looked on his bed while he lied down, examining all the empty space.

“Why did I get a full?”

“To remind yourself that you're alone and that you always will be.”

“Well, maybe not always.”

“You'd have to find someone either as stupid, crazy or as much of a fucking loser as you are for her to even believe that you're worth being attached to.”

“...probably. Maybe I might get lucky?”

“If it's you, her definition of 'lucky' would be like Russian Roulette. Being with you is spending time hoping she doesn't get the chamber with the bullet in it that day.”

“Because that's when you'll show up.”

“And I'll remind her of everything she needs to know to understand why this is a mistake. I'll show her those ugly things about yourself that she deserves to know, and she'll rightfully leave.  Just like what happens with everybody else eventually.”

“...would things be easier if I was just dead?”

“You couldn't go through with that shit the first few times you tried, what makes you think it would be able to do it now?”

“You're... you're probably right.”

“Besides, you have 'responsibilities' now, don't you? It's easier to do when you just hate your fucking family. Now you're committed to this shit. There's no way out of here, you're in this for the long run and you're going to drag a bunch of people down with you who don't deserve it.”

“...I think I'll be okay with that eventually. Just like everyone else.” Even his conscience went silent for a bit.

“...right. Shouldn't you be asleep?”

“I don't really know anymore.” He wasn't entirely sure when he woke up or when he was asleep anymore, all he knew is that it's probably a different day.