2-D Stuart Harold pot

(I found this on A03! If you can find the original go support the creator!) Isn’t it morbid?

De4th. Isn’t de4th morbid?

The idea of it. The idea that a person, once full of light, can be watered down to a pile of maggots within weeks.

Someone that nobody knows. Someone everybody knows. Like, 2-D.

2-D sat curled up on his bathroom floor. Drool oozing out of either side of his mouth, lips coated bright pink.

The (now empty) bottle of Benadryl sat loosely in his palm as he shook. He sat up, threw himself back against the wall, and vomited all over his t-shirt. What came out of him was thick and pink. A sad, dull, deadly pink.

He started to cry again. Fuck. Fuck. How? How can they still feel after all of that? How?

2-D reached out for the 2nd bottle that sat on top of the counter. He gnawed the lid off, tore off the seal, and poured the bitter pills into his mouth. He stared in the mirror and stuck his tongue out.

Each pill slowly dissolved on his soft tongue and 2-D found it poetic. He slowly swallowed each pill dry, the remaining vomit in his mouth making it easier. How rank.

If that wasn’t gonna k1ll him, what else would.

Oh.

He knew just how to top this off. The cherry on top. God, He was fucking disgusting.

He reached into the top drawer and fished out one of Murdoc’s razors—the ones he used for shaving. Fresh from the pack. Sharp. Thin. Shiny. His life, or rather, lack of, depended on this machine-made piece of metal.

2D pressed the blade against his thin wrist. It slotted into his vein and he nearly screamed.

He took a deep breath and mentally counted down. 5. 4.

This was terrible. He was terrible. 3.

People would be mad at him, so very mad at him. He’d be perceived, even after de4th. The opposite of what he wanted, but at least he wouldn’t be aware. 2.

One. He yanked the blade across his skin. He looked up at the mirror in terror as their blood splattered onto it.

He fell backwards, right onto his head. Just what he needed! More damage to the skull—but, wait, it doesn’t really matter anymore, does it?

And it never would matter. Ever again.

Stu was sleepy.

He decided to get some shuteye. A long, lovely nap, right here on his sticky bathroom floor. Oh, this was heaven.

Heaven.

How funny.

————————————

He woke up.

What the fuck. He woke up.

On the floor, still covered in puke. The smell of it made him want to puke more. His hand felt like it was going to fall off. His wrist was oozing yellow sludge and smelled bad.

No, no. This floor was not heaven. Oh, it was hell, all 7 layers of it mashed into 4 walls.

Hell. He was back here again. He couldn’t escape the cycle. Oh, he promised that it would work this time.

He swore to God that it would. That all-mighty bastard.

Tears filled his hollow eyes and he curled up in a corner. Crying, for what felt like the billionth time in 48 hours. How does one mess THAT up?

2-D had fumbled relationships, songs, jobs… everything. But, his own DE4TH?

Pathetic. Filthy.

2-D was pathetic and filthy.