Have you ever felt so miserable that you just wanted to disappear?
Not die, not exactly. Just...cease to exist. Vanish without a trace, as if your worthless life had never been.
He didn't know when it started or how it happened, but it did.
******
Darkness filled the room, broken only by the sound of a sleeping boy's breath and the relentless ticking of the clock on the wall.
Tick-tock.
Tick-tock.
On the nightstand, a phone suddenly screamed to life.
Riiing~!
The boy stirred, twisting in his sheets, and ignored it. The alarm, as if testing his patience, grew louder, its vibrations rattling the wooden surface.
With a groan, he finally forced his eyes open.
"Fuck, will you just shut up?!" He slammed his arm onto the nightstand, fumbling for the phone until he silenced the noise. A sharp pain shot through his wrist. "Argh, tsk."
He brought the screen to his face.
[5:09 AM]
"I woke up again," he muttered, a bitter smile twisting his lips.
He sat up, his gaze landing on the empty pill bottle beside his bed. "Effective, my ass."
For several minutes, he just sat there, staring into the void of his room. Silent.
"Why can't I just die in my sleep? Why do I have to keep waking up?" He looked up at the ceiling, his voice a hollow challenge. "Answer me, oh God."
Only silence answered.
He chuckled, a dry, broken sound. "Of course. I wonder if you even exist."
With a sigh that seemed to carry the weight of the world, he stood. He stumbled through the darkness, his feet catching on discarded clothes and fast-food boxes. "Tsk. I really need to clean this place."
He finally reached the mirror attached to his wardrobe.
He hated the face that stared back. He had always hated it.
Brown eyes, dull and empty. Brown skin like peanut butter. A mess of curly red hair. His body was painfully thin, as if he'd been starving for weeks, and it was a canvas of bruises. His features were a rebellion against beauty standards: a broad nose, hollowed cheeks, a weak jawline, and a face full of pimples.
He used to never care. But now—
"Fucking ugly bastard," he cursed. Looking any longer made him nauseous. He turned away.
He flicked on the light, illuminating the catastrophic mess of his room. Clothes were strewn everywhere, and cardboard boxes from countless takeout meals littered the floor. He never went out, and cooking felt pointless. "I should clean, but what's the point? No one ever visits."
In the bathroom, he turned on the shower and waited for the water to get hot—winter made the cold bite deep. He stepped under the spray, hissing as the warm water stung his bruises. After a stream of curses, he stepped out, wrapping a towel around his gaunt frame.
Every movement ached.
Back at the wardrobe mirror, he pulled out his school uniform: white with blue trim.
"Why do I have to go to school? Can't I just rot here?"
A bitter laugh escaped him. "It's funny, isn't it? I'm still here after all those pills. I thought for sure... but I guess fate has other plans." He looked into his own eyes in the reflection. "Oh, and fuck Google."
He'd searched about which medications could kill if consumed in large amounts. He'd bought them all yesterday and swallowed them before bed, excited at the prospect of finally leaving this world of suffering and pain.
But nothing ever went as planned in this accursed. He'd woken up. It was impossible—the dosage should have killed anyone instantly. He felt no aftereffects, just the same bruised body and the crushing depression.
"Let me guess," he said to his reflection. "On top of this monstrosity of a face, I now have a body immune to meds?"
He started to laugh, a mad, grating sound. "Fucking hilarious... don't you think?" He turned to his left, where a figure stood.
A boy with the same hair, the same eyes, the same bruised body. Himself.
"Yeah, I agree, Bradley," the other him chuckled.
He was batshit crazy, and he knew it.
"You know I hate it when you call me by my name. It's creepy," Bradley frowned.
"I am you. What's wrong with me calling you by your name?"
"That's why it's weird! Isn't it weird to hear your own voice saying your name back at you from another person who is you?"
"Okay," the other Bradley nodded. "You have a fair point."
Bradley often wondered where the other him had come from. It started after his parents died in the accident. At first, he thought it was a skin-walker, but it wasn't. This other him was real—not just an imagination, not just a coping mechanism for the loneliness that had him talking to himself. This was different.
"Shit. I really went crazy," Bradley muttered.
"Yeah, you did," the other him agreed.
"Now move your ass. We've got school."
"Tsk. Don't say 'we' as if you actually attend. You just hang around me like a ghost," Bradley cursed.
"Same thing."
Bradley shook his head, finished dressing, grabbed his bag and phone, and left the room.
As he closed the door, he froze. Directly across the hall was his parents' bedroom.
A dark look clouded his face. The other him mirrored the expression.
He always blamed himself for their deaths. The night before they left on the trip that killed them, they'd had a stupid, meaningless argument. Because of his anger, they'd left earlier than planned.
The next day, filled with regret, he wanted to apologise. But the news came first: a car accident. No survivors.
He hated himself for that anger. He hated himself for the stupid fight. He wanted to apologise, to tell them he was sorry, but it was too late.
So he began to rot. He stopped leaving his room, gave up on studying, and starved himself, a slow torture he hoped would end him. But nothing worked.
He hated everything.
If only I hadn't gotten angry... If only... They might still be alive. What a fucking piece of shit I am. I'm so sorry, Mom. Dad.
Why does nostalgia make you sad instead of happy?
A single tear traced a path down his cheek. He stood there for several minutes before finally turning away. He wiped his face and walked down the hall, passing portraits of happier times—him and his parents, smiling on the walls.
He descended the stairs into the lavish mansion his billionaire parents had left behind. Maids and servants greeted him softly; he nodded silently and passed by.
The main doors were held open by a servant. Outside, a black limousine with smoked windows waited, and beside it stood his personal butler, Vuitton.
"Good morning, Young Master Bradley," the butler said, his voice soft with a French accent.
"Morning, Vuitton."
Vuitton had gray hair and kind blue eyes. He had served Bradley's parents for decades, long before Bradley was born. He was the only person Bradley could still stand.
"Did you eat, Young Master?"
"No. I'm not hungry."
"But you must eat. Look how thin you are becoming." Vuitton gently took his wrist, encircling it with his thumb and forefinger. The fit was loose. "What would your parents think of me if I failed to care for you properly?" The old man's back trembled.
Bradley stood silent, his left hand clenching into a fist. He watched the butler's shoulders shake and felt a wave of crushing guilt.
"I know it is hard... losing your parents at fourteen," Vuitton whispered, his voice breaking. "But please, do not harm yourself."
Bradley trembled at the raw plea. He nodded, his own vision blurring. "Okay. I'll try. So please... don't cry."
"Thank you," Vuitton said, quickly composing himself. "How unprofessional of me."
He opened the limousine door, and Bradley slid inside. The car rolled smoothly down the cobblestone drive, past the iron gates.
Bradley sat in silence, watching the world pass by the window. The other him sat on the seat across, silent for once.
And the only thought, the single, highest wish that echoed in the emptiness of his mind, was:
I want to die.