FicWad

This is from Tristan's point of view when she is having problems during The Black Parade.


Death
An excerpt from Awake and Unafraid

It all started with the realization, everybody dies.

Our instinct supplies us with reassurance that we are some kind of exception, that death will never lay its cold, icy palm against our back, even though we are swimming mainstream, conforming to a lifestyle. We think we are special. The cold hard truth is that everyone is taken alive.

Conformists are always wrong. Love does know boundaries. Death does not. In the hand of death, the subject of race, age, gender, sexuality, location, religion, and identification all fade into one fact. You are dead. It would stop mattering that I am a heterosexual Caucasian woman. Nothing matters when you're dead. Death knows no difference in intellect. Death does not care for you or your shame, or your pleads for more, or your pain. Death is release.

And so here I am. A gun, pushed against my curled lips, the cold metallic taste spreading through my mouth like a disease, infecting my taste buds. Waiting for the barrel to explode beneath my fingertips…what are you waiting for? My subconscious asks.

I couldn't say exactly what drove me to this. I’d like to say it was something more than surface problems. This may be hard to believe, but I am not a deeply troubled person. All my problems are caused by the exasperating situations life has dealt me. The family. The [lack of] friends. Th-

Never mind…no will care anyway….

That’s right…no one cares about you…my subconscious is taunting me as I hold the gun in place…

Tears escape my eyes as I look at myself in the mirror…pull the trigger…everything will be better if you were dead…my subconscious is coaxing me to do what I had set out to do in the first place. My finger tightens against the trigger. I close my eyes, ready for the end…I can’t do it…look at yourself…you are so damn weak…you disgust me…my subconscious is screaming at me.

I take the gun and lay it on my night stand. I shake my head and concede to the thoughts of finally getting the guts to end it all…I roll my eyes at myself and my thoughts…you will never do it…you are so weak…so incomplete... I kick those thoughts out of me head.

I can’t do this…I can’t…I choke on my sobs as I lay my head in my hands and try to rationalize with myself about why I would want to let death take me….

I’m stronger than this…no you’re not…my subconscious is eyeing me suspiciously from the mirror…look at yourself…you were nearly rid of this life…I hate you…she screams at me.
I shake my head to rid myself of those self loathing thoughts and turn away from the mirror.

You are stronger that this, I keep telling myself…my subconscious is seething, but I don’t give it to her.

I am stronger than this…