And the memories.
Mom’s voice—so soothing, her smile always warm, her dreams for me always larger than life.
One day, Archie, you will shine brighter than the sun. You will be strong and powerful and lead others with kindness. You will have a beautiful girl you will love so much it will make your heart beat wildly. And she will hold your hand and love you back for the amazing person you are.
Right.
A powerful asshole who leads with a whip, hides his emotions in a bottle of booze, and has the most beautiful girl he’s ever met who despises him.
My heart twists into a knot.
Look at me, Mom.
Tears start coming, and I down the rest of my drink, spilling some of it on my chest.
You know what they say about your twenty-four-year-old prodigious son, Mom?
He is too handsome to be sad. He made too much money to worry about life. He has too much power to wish for anything. He has it all. What else can he possibly want?
Love—so fucking banal, so simple—of a mother, father, brother, a friend. Just an ounce of compassion. A drop of affection. A little fucking understanding of what it’s like to be responsible for so many others without anyone to lean on.
But you know what a wise man said? Don’t expect anything you can’t give in return.
You left too early to teach me how to give, Mom.Dad only taught me how to take. It’s a vicious circle.
Just like Kat said—I am a beautiful selfish prick.
I drop the pictures into the drawer. My secrets’ keeper. It holds all the important things.
I just need one.
Fuck you, Zion. I have more money than I can ever spend, yet, I’ve lived here like a prisoner in the last years, feared and hated, trying to help humanity.
I reach into another drawer and carefully pick up the most lethal weapon of all—a syringe and a small vial of liquid heroin. It looks black, like death.
Me and this—we go way back.
I did this several times before, after Droga’s accident, to see what it was like. In truth, I was being reckless on purpose, drowning the guilt. It was eye-opening. Took me a while to get off that shit and kill the urge to use again.
But now…
Now a different word comes to mind.
Not pleasure, no—euthanasia.
I want to fold. I’m just so tired of it all…
They say suicide is a weapon of the weak and selfish.
Nah. They don’t know shit. It’s just a means to ease pain. An escape. A way to make the world shut up. It’s just that simple. In a world of injustice, it seems like the justest weapon.
I bring the paraphernalia to the couch, light a cigarette, and sit down on the floor, my back against the couch. The floor is cold, and it cools my burning brain.
I open the syringe and the vial and draw the liquid, more than I need, without measuring.
The syringe is hypnotic. There is a sense of danger in every needle—whether it’s a cure or a death sentence. Humans can withstand years of torture, but a tiny needle can end a life in seconds. It’s scary and… fascinating.
My heart pumps at the idea, but there is too much pain and grief wrapping its tentacles around my neck, suffocating me.