Thread by @nrem511

CW: death, suicide.
His skull felt like lead, too heavy for his neck to bear it much longer. When did things get this bad? When did the apathy and the numbness set in? Even opening his eyes felt like an arduous chore. He dreamt of release, of slipping into a deep sleep forever.

How many times would he wake again? Lie still on the cool sheets while his heart thumps loudly in his chest? Would he drag his cumbersome limbs away from the safety of his bed? Every day the same routine. Pushing himself to play an upbeat role in a badly written screenplay.

Except this was no movie or tedious stage production. He wouldn't wish this experience on any audience. The banality of his daily existence would grind down even the bleakest of nihilists. In truth, he merely feels nothing. He floats through reality, muscle memory on auto pilot.

Wake up, walk downstairs, open the curtains, check for mail, flick on the electric kettle, go to the toilet, flinch at the bathroom mirror, make coffee and toast, sit, eat, gaze out the window, check his phone multiple times, wash, get dressed, drive to work, put on two masks.

One visible mask, the other invisible, but in his mind the second mask shields him the most. At work he goes through the motions like clockwork, a robot designed to comply. At the end of his shift he drives home, perhaps stopping for a few groceries on the way, nothing special.

He arrives home, toes off his shoes, shrugs off his coat and switches the lights on. For a brief moment he feels a sense of relief, comfort, a belonging in this familiar space. Dare he believe he is happy to be home? His rumbling belly distracts him as he aims for the kitchen.

Nothing very interesting for dinner, same old ingredients, uninspiring flavors. He lights the oven, places food inside, sets the timer, makes salad. While he waits he turns the tv on, selects a streaming service or plugs in his hard-drive. He doesn't even have to think about it.

Silently he eats his food while staring at the screen. He sees the images moving and hears the voices and music without focusing on the content. Methodically, he chews his food and sips his drink, usually tea or on a rare occasion, on a good day, he'll drink a can of coke.

He doesn't taste the food, it never fulfils him. He just feels the textures in his mouth, much like the content on the tv. It's there to be consumed, but he gains no enjoyment from it. After dinner he scrolls his phone, comments on a few posts, saves some shots, watches a video.

He's an observer of other people's lives, their achievements, their creativity, relationships, worries, milestones and frienships. All those connections. He interacts with some, but never truly assimilates. He flits between different groups, varying his interests.

The longer he gazes at all the passing imagery and rows of words, the further his mood plummets. Doubts, regrets, broken dreams, all blur into one giant wave of emotion that crashes down on his body. He slouches back on the couch, tearful, sighing, head filled with melancholy.

He wants to stop. He thinks about all his unfinished projects waiting to spring into life and carry him away to other worlds. Realities where his favorite characters carve lives for themselves and rejoice in happy ever afters. He feels guilty for neglecting and ignoring them.

He knows they're not real, but they help him bring purpose to his life, fill his heart with warmth. He knows all this, yet still he doesn't move from the well-worn indentation on the sofa. Hours pass and his brain slowly tortures him, convinces him he's a worthless piece of crap.

When he can stand it no more, he resigns himself to bed. First to the toilet, maybe brushes his teeth, washes his hands and perhaps his face. Before he trudges up to bed, he religiously checks the front and back doors. His fears of being murdered in his sleep always present.

He gets undressed, sighing at his form, feeling his skin and seeing his imperfections. He quickly covers up, pijamas usually. He would like to lie naked on his bed, touch himself, love his own body, but nowadays he only dares to explore in the darkness, pretend he's someone else.

The idea of another person touching him feels arousing. He likes those thoughts, he acts on them, imagines their voice and hands. It feels good. Just for a few stolen minutes, his mind allows him a pleasant distraction, but not for long. The self-rejection swiftly follows.

Instead of drifting off into a peaceful slumber, he lies fitfully remembering every minor detail of every excruciating fuck up he endured in his life. Entire months and years pass through his thoughts, faces long forgotten, names he barely recognizes, like an anthology of misery.

When sleep hangs heavy on his eyelids, he still fights it, unable to relax, feeling forced to battle his brain. He's scared. Too anxious to sleep in case he doesn't wake, but at the same time fearful of the following day. He can't face another rerun of this baseless daily slog.

So he lies there, gut churning, eyes watering, heart breaking. Every single night the same scenario. Just like every single day the same monotony. He sees no way out, no solution, except death. He can't do that to his parents, sometimes they are the only thing stopping him.

He tries each day to remind himself of tiny things that make him want to live, but gradually they are diminishing. His dreams and wishes that once flourished have all disappeared, there's just no point anymore.
He doesn't have the answer.
He just wants it to end.
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