Locked Out Of Heaven

*one month earlier.*
I looked in the mirror, my expression contorting into one of disgust as I stared at my own reflection.
I was, well and truly, a waste of space. I couldn’t count the times where I stood here and silently tortured myself, letting the self-hate spread through me like wildfire.
No matter how much I hated myself, hated looking at my stupid fucking face, I felt I needed this.
I needed to see what other people saw when they looked at me. I needed to feel what they said to me.
They were all right; I am stupid and worthless. I am hideous, I am a waste of space.
I don’t deserve to be alive.
I opened the cabinet and pulled out the shiny orange bottle - my purpose for coming in here.
Today would be the last day I would see my face. The last day anyone would see my face, I’ll make sure of it.
This time, I won’t fail.
The bottle rolled in my hand, almost as if it was silently willing me not to do it. I knew better, though - I had to do this.
I gripped the bottle tightly, twisting the cap off and staring down at the small white pills inside. Normally, they would be used for sleep, and I was in for a deep sleep tonight.
Walking out of the room, I laughed to myself. It wasn’t a sad laugh, no - it was a happy one.
In a few hours, I wouldn’t be here anymore. I would be dead, and that thought alone offered me some sort of relief.
I reminded myself that I always wanted this, even as a child. I never wanted to be alive, death was my true calling. Of course, suicide wasn’t really in my cards back then, but now that it was I was going to take full advantage of it.
I sat down at my writer’s desk and picked a pill up carefully, twirling it in between my fingers. It looked inviting, like it was beckoning me and I was more than eager to go along with it.
I’ve got nothing to lose, right? So I popped it in my mouth.
Two.
Three.
Four.
Five.
After the first one, the rest came easy. They fell out of the bottle like water and eased down my throat, as if they’ve been waiting for this moment just as long as I have.
How many had I taken now? I think it was fourteen, though I couldn’t be too sure. That wasn’t enough, though. I needed more.
Down they went, tumbling quickly and swiftly and I loved every minute of it.
I didn’t realize that I had downed the whole bottle until my hand flew up to my mouth and nothing was received, and I swore I felt a pout play at my lips. I could’ve been wrong, though, I wasn’t sure I really felt anything now.
How many pills were in that bottle?
I was starting to feel drowsy, my eyes going slack and weighing down.
It sort of felt nice, in a way that getting that one gift you’ve always wanted felt nice.
It also hurt a bit as well, but I could handle it. I handled much more than this, and that was all involuntarily.
When I could no longer hold my eyes up, I knew these moments were definitely going to be my last.
I started thinking, should I write a suicide note? No, I decided, no one was going to care enough to read it anyway. They’d probably laugh when they saw my body here, limp and lifeless.
I tried to move my arm, but I couldn’t. They both seemed to be weighed down heavily, like someone was sitting on them.
My head fell down against the table and I’m sure it would’ve hurt me if I could feel, but I couldn’t. I couldn’t do anything.
The last thing I remember as I slipped off into the dark was a light flickering on in my apartment, and my mom’s loving voice whispering “are you up, Vic?” In my ear before a sorrowful shriek filled the room.