Work Text:
How are you feeling?
Better, worse?
And how does that make you feel, that you feel that way?
The voice is barley heard. Whatever she's saying is muffled, it doesn't make its way far enough to reach him. How does he feel? The same. Always. The person asking the question doesn't seem to mind his answer. She writes it down in her notepad, her pen is quick agaisnt the paper, a second passes before she's back to asking questions.
How's your prescription? Any noticeable side effects? Do we need to up the dosage, lower it, change the prescription all together? Have you been taking your medicine?
Hey, why did you stop? Do you really think that was the best idea, Nathan?
They weren't working. The whole thing, it wasn't working. Every night he took the same 20mg of whatever medicine he'd been prescribed, but it never got him to where he needed to be. His brain needed to be killed and re-wired. The medicine was supposed to help, but it wasn't a 'fix all.' That's what they always tell you. The pills will only get you so far, the rest is up to you. The medicine gives you the ability to walk, but you have to take that first step, and then every single step after that, every day, forever, until you die. Doesn't that sound nice?
How does that make you feel?
Good, bad? Worse? Better?
Whoever is speaking to him has only been getting further away. Her questions, once muffled, are now much worse. They're practically nonexistent. Her voice is leaving him and he's letting it happen. He's drowing and she's watching him sink. They're in hell and nothing matters. The world is ending.
Nathan is on a stage. The lights flicker on, he's standing next to a stool and a microphone. It's your classic stand-up set-up. The curtains behind him are red. The crowd in front of him is silent. He can't make out any of their faces.
He taps the mic a few times, there's no feedback. Thank goodness.
Nice night we're having, huh?
Awkward silence. Is his voice making it to any of them? Are they listening.
My uh- my relatives like to remind me how important it is to take my medicine. You know, staying healthy. Drink water, get enough sleep, take your meds. Things like that.
Anti-depressants are supposed to help with like, your thinking. But sometimes- and this is an actual side effect- they make it worse. Mine don't do that though.
Nothing. The crowd is silent.
Though crowd.
Nathan looks around. He's preforming a set that no one is interested in for a group of people who don't know him. He's a misplaced string at the frey of a sweater. He's a stray dog, too violent to keep in doors, waiting to be put down. He's a lost child at a grocery store and an alcoholic looking for the isle where they sell their wine- the good stuff. Nathan is a lost cause. He didn't need to keep preforming, because no one was going to clap.
Um. Thank you. Good night.
He trips and falls off stage. The audience laughs.
Nathan wakes up on the kitchen floor. He feels terrible. There's cramps and aches in every inch of his body. The smell of alcohol has invaded the entire area; whiskey, cheap beer, the strong stuff mixed with the stuff that he happened to have on hand. This is a few days before he kills himself.
How are you feeling right now.
The plan doesn't start as a plan. It starts as a few stray thoughts. Those turn into ideas. The ideas appears every once in a while, then it's every other day, then every other hour. They grow if you let them (and sometimes even when you stop, they stay, like a habit you can't quite shake. Or a weed in a garden). This was a situation that's been played out a hundered times and Nathan was betting on how it would end.
Suicide by overdose was a lot like Russian roulette; you load the gun and pull the trigger and you hope- in this case- the bullet kills you. But it might not. In fact, it probably won't.
It was a gamble almost guaranteed to lose but he plays along anyways. Like a gambling addict digging themselves further into a hole, Nathan convinces himself this time will be different.
He fills the gun with bullets that take form in bottles, tablets and capsules; a variety of pills, drugs (prescription and otherwise), and alcohol. He piles them onto a coffee table next to him. He takes the first bottle.
I feel scared.
Nathan is sitting at a dining table.
I think I'm going to die soon.
Nathan is watching his sister be married.
Nathan is at the hospital.
His bedroom.
His office.
Let's try to untangle this web of feelings that you're feeling. Over the past two weeks: do you often feel helpless? Do you often feel bored? Have you been irritateable, have you experienced trouble sleeping? Let's really think about these. This is all important to consider.
How are you feeling.
Are you exercising, eating, going out? Did you throw yourself into a dying hotel in an attempt to feel like you're actually worth something?
Nathan Freeling is a mess.
In the entirety of that which is his life, what had he accomplished. Not much. Humble little things, occasional acts of kindness, small achievements only he himself could be proud of.
Nathan is waiting to die, and he doesn't tell anyone. The days pass, he thinks about selling some of the things he has. Should he write a note? Should he call someone? Days stop being marked on the calender. The floors aren't swept as often. These small acts of defiance kind of feel like giving up. He doesn't even feel bad anymore about how he never wakes before noon. Something about dying made everything not matter so much; sure, it's scary, but in equal parts it's relieving to finally let go.
Thank God it's almost over.
Please, God, save me from-
Nathan was raised vaugley Christian. He believed in Jesus like a child beleives in Santa clause, both are things he grew out of. But he prays before he dies, just one last time. A few days before his suicide. During dinner.
It's just him and the big guy who he isn't sure exists but is also too scared to denounce (just in case, because you can never be too sure). Nathan asks if he'll ever make it into heaven, he thanks God for the meal and he eats only half of it before going to bed.
Spoiler alert: he doesn't make it to heaven.
There were days he'd go to church, first regularly, then sparsely, then only during holidays, and finally, not at all. But occasionally he'd find himself back at a church. He'd sit in during a Sunday. The pastor, priest- whoever was speaking- they would say their sermon and everyone would leave feeling, what, enlightened? At peace? Nathan never knew, but he'd usually leave feeling disappointed. For some reasons God's message never made it to him. Maybe his words were meant for someone else; everyone else.
So, yeah. He doesn't make it to heaven.
The sad reality is that no one saves Nathan. He dies in the late afternoon, alone, overdosing, exactly how he wanted to go and hating every minute of it. His life doesn't flash before his eyes; his life lasted over thirty years, his death lasted the the better part of an hour.
And then it's over.