Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Four days until.
I plan for it. I get the supplies. I lie to my mom about what it’s for, saying that I need it for a school project. It’s a project, just not a school one. I feel scared every time I think about it, but excitement overloads that fear, so it’s alright.

Four days until.
I distance myself from my friends. They’ll have to get used to not being around me, better now than late. We planned to hang out today. I don’t go. My friends call, asking where I am. I don’t answer. I don’t eat dinner.

Four days until.
I read the plan again. Over and over until it’s too foggy to read anymore. I take my morning pills, the ones that help me stay awake. They help. There’s blood coming from the lines on my arms. I plan and I plan and I plan until morning peaks through the windows and my alarm goes off.

Three days until.
I don’t go to school. I skip my classes. My parents call, worried. I don’t answer. I go to a cafe. I buy a coffee. It’s a latte, my favourite coffee. I sip at it and leave a tip. I don’t need money much more, anyways.

Three days until.
I apologize to my parents when I get home. They let me know they were worried, and that they love me. I let them know I won’t do it again. I go in my room, and lock the door, and plan. I plan all night.

Three days until.
I spend all night working on the plan, revising every possible situation. I don’t hurt myself, I treat the wounds for the day, and I plan. I plan. That’s all I do. I don’t eat dinner.

Two days until.
They don’t know. I walk down the hallway and they don’t know. I’m normal, I’m fine, I’m okay. They don’t know. I carry books full of planning and hours of no sleep, my life in its hands. They point and laugh. I don’t care anymore.

Two days until.
I give them my stuff, I make sure to hang out with them. They think I’m better because I seem more happy. I let them cling onto that hope. They let me know they care for me. I feel sad over that. They don’t know.

Two days until.
I talk to those I can’t hang out with physically over the phone. I make sure to let them know I’m alright. I’m not. I haven’t been. I will be soon. They don’t know. They think I’m doing well, they let me know they’re proud of me. I will have to let them down soon.

Two days until.
I take up baking for a hobby. I make cookies for my mom, and give my brother some coffee while he works on his company from his room. He never says thank you. I play catch in the backyard with my dad, I’m not that good but he’s teaching me. He tries to make a plan to play again next week. I won’t be around next week, so I decline. I promise to play with him some other time. I won’t.

Two days until.
I eat dinner, I lie in my bed, and I revise the plan and then sleep. I dream of nothing but darkness. I wake up at 3 AM, and I plan some more. The exhaustion is starting to get to me.

One day until.
I eat breakfast. I don’t talk to my parents, but I give them a hug on my way out. They don’t know about the cuts on my wrist. They don’t know. I bring my plan with me, for fear of them finding it. They never went through my room, but they might now. There’s a chance.

One day until.
I do my work, I don’t talk to my friends, and I go home. I don’t eat lunch, I’m not hungry. I give my lunch to a kid that doesn’t have one instead. I never liked whole wheat bread anyways.

One day until.
I play games with my online friends, notably Fortnite. I win one round. Me and my friends cheer over that, and then proceed to lose the next few. They ask to play sometime soon, I decline. I go to bed, I can’t sleep. I think all night instead. I eventually sleep.

0 days until.
I wake up. I eat breakfast, and I talk to my parents. I talk to them about a future I won’t have. I act happy. They don’t notice somethings up. I clean the dishes. I don’t normally do chores, but it’s to make up for the mess later.

0 days until.
I bring my brother a coffee and go to school. I cover up any scars on my wrists with my hoodie. I talk to my friends, I give them my passwords to everything and anything I have left. I hand in all my finished assignments, and I go home.

0 days until.
I write the notes. I write one for mom, I write one for dad, I write one for my brother, I write one for the Un-witness Protection, I send my online friends texts, I write a note for my future, and I say sorry. I hold the ropes for hours.

0 days until.
I drink the alcohol. I take the painkillers. I tie the rope into a noose. I hang it up. I climb up. I kick the stool. It falls over. I claw at my neck. I don't want to die. Please let this kill me. Please help. Please die. Please. Please. Please.

Two days after.
I wake up. The room is sterile, calm, with beeping and buzzing filling the air. There's a doctor at my side. He does a check up on me. I'm wearing a paper scrub thing. It's uncomfortable and itchy. I want to die.

Two days after.
He asks me what happened, I tell him. He doesn't look me in the eyes, he never does, but he writes every word I say onto a clipboard with paper. And then there's more nurses, and it's all a blur, and mom and dad come in. They're crying. Mom isn't saying anything and dad is hugging me. They leave and I fall asleep.

Three days after.
They tell me I'm on suicide watch. They tell me they will put me in a psych ward for my own safety. Mom and dad come in, we talk like it's normal. Mom asks me why, and I can't muster up the courage to tell her. David comes in too. We don't talk. It's awkward and silent the entire time.

Four days after.
I'm being transported to a psych ward. They strip search me, finding nothing. They put me in a room with other kids. One of them is here because they don't have anyone to take care of them. The routine is strict. I can't have any items that would seem even slightly dangerous, or I'll be in trouble.

Seven days after.
I wake up, eat, walk laps, and then mom comes by. She says she's scared. I am too. I don't like it here, it's too crowded, doctors come in and out of rooms without knocking, without caring. She asks me to never do it again. I promise.

Ten days after.
I meet a guy while outside in the yard. He's smoking a cigarette. He wears the uniform of the patients here. He lives in the ward with the older people. He tells me it will be okay. I cry to him.

Fourteen days after.
They give me medicine. It's supposed to help but it doesn't. I tell them it doesn't work. They give me more. Everything becomes numb. They give me more medicine for that, too.

Twenty days after.
I talk to the guy in the yard again. He's leaving soon. I tell him congratulations. He no longer smokes, just stares at the sky. I get it. He tells me I can do this, that he's proud of me for making it this far.

Twenty Five days after.
They no longer believe me anymore. I try to describe anything, but if I show any emotion, I get called dangerous. If I act in a way that might also constitute as dangerous, I'm put in a room for the rest of the day. They tell me I'm not normal, that they can fix me. I'm scared.

Thirty Six days after.
They give me more medicine to fix my problems. More. More. More. I take one at any point in the day. It doesn't help, so they give me a new medicine on top of the others. If there's a problem, there's a medicine to fix it.

Fourty days after.
They tell me I'm all better. They give me back my items, well, not all of them. Some are missing. David drives me home. No music plays, no conversation is had, nothing. It's whatever. I get home. Any weapons are out of sight. There's a lock on some stuff. Mom is crying in the living room. I try comforting her. It doesn't work.

Fourty days after.
The lock on my door was removed. My room was searched. Some of my stuff was taken, including the notes. Mom says it's for my safety. New rules are in place. I'm not allowed to close my bedroom unless I've went to bed, I'm changing, or someone else is in there with me.

Fifty days after.
Mom has been watching me closely. It makes sense. She cries a lot. Dad buries himself in work. I've ruined this family. Mom tells me I can talk to her at any time. I bake some muffins. I go to bed. I don't eat dinner.

Chapter Text

One hundred and Three days after.

I go to summer camp. I make new friends, they're a bit older than me but they understand. They invite me to hang out later tonight. I accept. I don't take my many medicines. I feel better without them. The doctors wouldn’t approve. I still take my sleeping medicine. 

One hundred and Three days after.

I hang out with my new friends. We laugh. They are kind. One of them is cute. I like him. His eyes are like the sky, beautiful and perfect. He and I talk a lot. We make a plan to hang out, just the two of us, sometime. They smoke. I don’t think I’ll ever smoke. It sounds kind of boring.

One hundred and Five days after.

They invite me to hang out with some of their friends. I go. I take too much of my sleeping medicine and don’t wake up in time for breakfast. I'm tired for the rest of the day. After, I talk to the boy. His name is ____. I think I love him. He’s older than me – I’m 15 and he’s turning 19 this October – but it’s alright. I love him. He takes something small and red before we hang out. I don’t think I’ll ever try that – maybe I will, just not yet.

One hundred and Seven days after.

I can’t sleep without taking so many sleeping pills at a time. The dreams are never anything, just sinking into the abyss over and over and over and over and over. ____ and I hang out. It’s the best. I find something to satiate the lust for death.

One hundred and Ten days after.

I drink alcohol. I stopped after the night I failed to kill myself, but it tastes so good. I don’t go to my activities today, claiming I’m too sick, but I drink my sorrows away with ____. I love him I love him I love him. There’s no wisps here.

One hundred and Twenty Two days after.

I hang out with my friends. I drink with them. I feel so empty without the alcohol in my system. They smoke. It looks cool, maybe I’ll try that too. Anything that’ll free me from that desire and lust of death that has been so present since I failed.

One hundred and Twenty Nine days after.

I smoke, and it feels so good. I’m free. I'm so free and I’m so okay and everything is good. Why didn’t I do this earlier? I feel so dizzy but I’m flying and everything is perfect. ____ laughs at me for being so excited over it. I drink alcohol, so much so that I know I won’t be able to think straight the next day.

One hundred and Thirty Four days after.

I can’t stop smoking. It’s so good and it’s helping so so so so much! I’m free from everything that was once hurting me. I smoke and smoke and I feel so much better. ____ apparently lives nearby my house, so that’s good. I smoke all day and I don't go to activities. I go to the lake nearby the camp and sit there all day. 

One hundred and Thirty Nine days after.

Summer camp ends soon. I don’t know where to get anymore cigarettes so I panic in a room for hours. The nicotine helps fix that. I feel better whenever I smoke. It’s less than it was the first time, so I smoke more to make me feel more euphoric. It helps. I feel better.

One hundred and Fourty Two days after.

I will die without the smoke. I need it. It will kill me if I don’t. Everything’s scary without it, so I take a hit and feel better. Not enough. So I smoke more and more and more until ____ cuts me off. We laugh for a bit after that.

One hundred and Fourty Five days after.

____ gives me a supply of cigarettes after I leave. I smoke. Mom picks me up and we talk. I don’t tell her about the cigarettes or the alcohol. I wait by the bleachers for ____. He doesn’t come. I’ll try again tomorrow.

One hundred and Fifty days after.

Sometimes I don’t feel like a girl, but I am, and I’ll have to live with it. ____ comes by, and my parents approve of him. If only they knew that he was 18. They think he’s my age. We walk to the bleachers and he tells me about weed, and I ask him for some. We smoke nicotine. He promises he’ll get me a stash of weed. I write poetry when I get home, something about two wolves, but I don’t remember.

One hundred and Fifty Three days after.

School is starting soon. ____ gives me some weed and we smoke it. It makes me feel so much better, I can do anything. Mom notices something is up when I get home, but my pupils don’t dilate like others do when they are high, so she doesn’t mention it. I feel so good. I watch hero documentaries – specifically Mrs. G – even though I’ve never really felt anything towards heroes before. I feel a connection to Mrs. G, and I don’t know why. 

One hundred and Sixty days after.

School has started. I take a hit of my weed before I go. It helps a lot more, it lasts much longer, and since the nicotine isn’t doing much for me anymore. I knock out all my first day bullshit and hang out with ____. He talks about a party, and promises alcohol and other treats if I go. I agree. I tell my mom that I’m hanging out with ____ the day of the party, which technically isn’t a lie. She agrees. I’m excited.

One hundred and Sixty Seven days after.

I go to the party and ____ is right. I drink alcohol, and I feel funnier than usual. The sky is screaming and I ask why to everyone who comes by and the walls are purple and I wonder why they chose that colour only now and not earlier and everything is shifting slightly to the left. The walls grow and come towards me. Everything is stale if I look at it for too long, so I change rooms and songs frequently. ____ laughs and helps. He looks so much better while I’m like this. I ask for more. He promises me more later.

One hundred and Seventy days after.

He gives me more of that fun stuff – it’s called Acid. It’s the best. I’m so much smarter with it, so I do it today. I wonder why. It’s the acid, duh, but why does acid do that? Why? Why? Why? I think about it for hours and come home much too late. By that time, the high is worn off, and the dread and desire for more kicks in. Tomorrow. For now, I take a hit of the nicotine. I see more wisps when I do. They follow me sometimes.

One hundred and Seventy Four days after.

He and I take the silly small piece of the best stuff ever, and we trip. Everything is so silly and fun and screaming and I wonder why. ____ leads me to the bed, and removes my shirt. He grinds his leg – he is wearing shorts – against my clothed crotch. It’s the best. I wonder if it’s as good without the acid. He unhooks my bra and fondles with my boobs. I hate my boobs. They make me feel weird. I return the favor of the shirt removal and eventually pants are off and he presses his hand onto my crotch and it’s the best thing ever and everything is good and it’s all a blur and there's white all over the bed when I’m back from the ecstasy. He promises to clean it off, and I’ve never had a problem with his trust, so I trust him once more.

One hundred and Eighty days after.

I do a line of cocaine, and mom notices how hyper I am. I tell her I’m okay, because I am! I feel like a hero- I can do anything and nobody will stop me! But it wears off, and I’m left and I feel so lonely and I need more more more more more or everything will die and so will I, so I do more. 

One hundred and Eighty Six days after.

I wonder if it’s normal to need sex. I need it, it’s all I want, it’s all I think about other than ____. I love him. We have sex regularly now. It’s perfect and life is perfect and I feel so sick but I take a hit and I’m okay. Sometimes I crave the weed and feel it in my mouth, begging to truly be there. The wisps are trying to bring me somewhere.

One hundred and Ninety days after.

I, for once, don’t feel like having sex. ____ is worried, and so am I, so I take some more acid that he provides for me. He doesn’t take anything. I feel so drowsy and nothing like normal, the LSD must be broken. I can’t remember anything but blurs. He takes off my shirt and I can’t help but give in. I don’t want to, but I do it anyways.

One hundred and Ninety Seven days after. 

Everytime I take the acid he provides me, it’s normal, so I’m not sure what he gave me. I ask him for sex again, and it replaces all my worries. I take a hit of weed and don’t return that night. Dad calls my phone over and over and over but I don’t hear anything over the pleasure.

Two hundred and One days after.

I take Tylenol for the hangover and go back to ____’s house. I don’t feel like sex, so he gives me some water and I feel funny again. I can’t remember anything after that. I wake up midday covered in come. 

Two hundred and Ten days after.

I go to his house and catch him with another girl. He tells me it’s okay and gives me some weed to relax. I remember him and the girl taking turns on me, too stoned to even get a word out.

Two hundred and Fifteen days after.

I can’t do it anymore. That fucker raped me. I can’t. Oh my god. I throw up my empty stomach and I confess to my mom about the rape. She forbids me from seeing ____ ever again, and I agree. He is 19. I am only 15.

Two hundred and Twenty days after.

My supply is running low, so I get a new contact. He gives me more acid, and I take it. Everything is good and better and there's voices telling me to do more so I do and it’s the best.

Two hundred and Thirty One days after.

I take too much acid, and drink alcohol, and I throw up. Dad notices something is wrong and brings me to the hospital. They jack me up on something that helps. I fall asleep. I dream of colours.

Two hundred and Thirty Two days after.

They bring me to a psych ward again. They strip me of my clothes and I see my raw body. I hate my boobs. My vagina is overused. I am a slut. I beg for more drugs, pleading. They say no. The wisps sit by me. I talk to them for hours. The paper scrubs are itchy and worse than I remember last time.

Two hundred and Thirty Nine days after.

I scream and cry and kick at the door. I NEED IT I NEED IT I NEED IT I NEED IT I NEED IT I NEED IT I NEED IT I NEED IT I NEED IT I NEED IT I NEED IT I NEED IT I NEED IT I NEED IT I NEED IT I NEED IT I NEED IT I NEED IT I NEED IT I NEED IT I NEED IT I NEED IT I NEED IT.

Two hundred and Fourty Seven days after. 

I find scissors and I cut and I cut over and over and I bleed. They lock me in a room for hours and hours and hours and I cry and the wisps are there too. They sit by me. I’m not alone. I’m so alone. Let me become a wisp. Kill me. Please.

Two hundred and Fifty Five days after.

I’m going to die I’m going to die I’m going to die. Help. I beg for help and they don’t listen. I have my own room now. I claw at the walls. I don’t remember the day. There’s wisps everywhere and they want me. They want me to find it.

Two hundred and Ninety days after. 

I go home with Dad. We talk. I say sorry. He tells me he loves me and it helps, it really does. I hug him and we play catch before we go inside. It’s nice. I promise to play with him some other time.

Two hundred and Ninety days after.

My room has been searched again, and all my drugs are gone. My phone is taken away and I am not allowed to be outside, unless at school, without someone with me. I think a good hit of weed would help them, they seem stressed.

Two hundred and Ninety Two days after.

I’m back at school. I apologize to the rest of the Un-witness Protection. They don’t know what happened, but I promise I won’t do it again. I really do mean it. I do. We play Racing demons with the cards after school at my house. 

Three hundred days after.

They follow me wherever I go. So do the wisps. After school I follow the wisps to the forest. There’s someone waiting for me. I take the nicotine. 

Three hundred and Four days after.

Me and the Un-witness Protection search the forest for our next big mystery. We split up, and I search up the hill. There’s a wisp. It begs me to follow. I smoke a cigarette while I follow. I look over the edge of the cliff. I need to take a step forward. I need to. So I do.