Work Text:
You're done. You've reached a point where you simply do not care.
Living has become a mere chore to you.
You've felt this way before, sure. The feeling where your life is not in control, so you've turned to doing whatever you could to be in control of your life once more, even if it wasn't healthy. You have broken various pencil sharpeners in two just to be able to draw beautiful lines on your arms and thighs. You had control over something then.
Now, however, you feel nothing. Even harming yourself became a chore. It lost it's abilty, but you still do it because you grown addicted to the sight of it; your blood spilling in little beads. It was beautiful to you.
You've held suicide in a high pedestal for a long time, yet never acted on those impulses before. You didn't want to make the people around you sad, and you feared what would've come next, whether you failed or succeeded in the attempt. That was then. Presently, you're numb, apathetic to your family. You don't care how it would affect them. You don't even care as much for the cats you claimed you'd miss oh so much.
You do not care.
Their sadness would mean nothing to you.
Why would it? If you succeeded you wouldn't be there to witness it. Maybe they should've been a little nicer. Who cares? You no longer do. You lost all hope.
You care not about your future, you don't care for anything. You're just an empty shell sharing a face with 5 other people who you've started to feel alienated from.
Yet, no matter what, this feeling in your chest doesn't go away. It's there constantly, nagging at you, trying to squeeze as much emotion from you as possible. You can't take it anymore. This feeling is too much. Too annoying. You want it to stop. It has to stop.
With your mind fixated on getting rid of this feeling, you go into the kitchen, pull out a knife and-