Word Count: 602
Spoilers: Vague spoilers, I guess, but not really--you're in no danger.
Characters/Pairings: You figure it out. (No pairing intended, though.)
Warnings: Character suicide. This is a really crazy fic; I was slightly insane when I wrote it. Sorry. It's not good. In fact, it stinks.
Only those ties he particularly hated were selected from his wrinkled collection (said collection currently stuffed into the bottom of his suitcase). He trimmed his nails one by one in the miniature bathroom, seated on the toilet, not bothering to ask himself why he cared about his appearance when there was no point—he was meticulous with the clippers, making certain to trim each cuticle. The hairdryer, cold to the touch at first, grew hot quickly when he plugged it into the wall socket; he angled it properly so that the warmth reached his scalp and shivered almost unconsciously at the unexpected heat. He combed his hair out afterward, strands so warm they seemed to glow at his touch, radiating reflected heat into his fingers and the palms of his hands.
He concentrated on the sensations. There was no future and there was no past. There was only the present, the here and now. He pulled on his socks. They were black. One didn’t quite match the other. He removed the one that didn’t match and found a different pair entirely. It took him a little while to make the exchange.
Shoes were by the door. Not the work shoes, the others. Needed to be shined—polish in the suitcase. He sat on the edge of the bed and rubbed with a blackened rag until he saw his face in the toes, four familiar eyes staring back at him. He didn’t look too long, slid his feet abruptly into the leather shackles instead. He stood up and washed the rag in the bathroom sink, watching as the water from the faucet, now a dark shade of gray, ran trembling down the drain and disappeared.
Everything was done now, everything was ready.
He continued to keep his mind blank as he strode to the table by the door. A pen was chained to the edge, like the pens in banks, not immovable but restrained. Life was a lot like that. He wrapped his fingers—they seemed so numb now—around the pen, brought it to paper, and scrawled a brief message in doctor’s handwriting. The pen was replaced in its holder, the paper positioned appropriately on the table, facing the door. He turned around and surveyed the room one final time; quiet, empty, small, mass-produced. Middle-aged, and this was what was left of him? He was leaving this legacy? This wasn’t a legacy—it was a station far by the wayside, a truck stop. How many others had slept in the same bed?
He adjusted his collar and sighed.
When they found him, his loafers were dangling a foot from the ground. The space between their soles and the floor seemed wrong. Men weren’t meant to fly. They undid his suspension, lowered him. Eventually they would bury him, eventually, but not yet. He was on a stretcher for awhile, face covered—they knew he wouldn’t need to breathe.
There was the sound of a motorcycle outside, followed by footsteps. The attendant, a man in a white coat, explained what had happened, obviously trying to be calming—the words violated the quietude, the speech spattered the body with vapid graffiti. There was no glorifying death, there was no dignity in it. There was only the end of living. A snap of the fingers and you were gone. Better to believe life wasn’t a test.
They handed him the ties, knotted together, each knot in itself a precise work of art, and he went outside. He sat on his bike, leaned over the handlebars and cried.