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He knows them so well that they end up on the same cliff, staring down the same ending, like how your eyes skip to the last panel on the page.
He thinks of the way the grass felt, swears it pulsed underneath him, pushing a weak, fizzing body into his arms. Love received, love rejected. Corpses reanimated or scrapped from the series.
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He looks so young down there on the floor. Like a little kid in a collar of vomit. Blue-fingered, ashen, frozen just this way, alone. There’s no note, of course. He always pictured a note, that he’d somehow always find a way to get the last word in. Past the disbelief is belief, and beyond that, a wonder if this is the first thing he’s ever done on accident. Clinking bottles, snapped strings, little teeth clicking against each other. Someone is knocking on the door. If grass could grow here, it would bully its way past the linoleum and lift him up.