Early, February 28th (#2), 1894 — Wellingtonshire
tw: attempted suicideHe hadn’t been able to get to the hospital last night through the blizzard. The Floo had been offline. It was too dangerous to walk out or to apparate. He had done what he could for the next door neighbours who’d needed help, but otherwise – there had been a lot of time to think about things.
He had taken out some parchment at his desk, and thought about writing letters. There were people he wanted to say sorry to: his family, Dionisia and Elliott, Ben. But he had done enough to them already, and more words wouldn’t help – actions would serve them better. And – his usual methods weren’t helping him anymore. All the relief of cutting himself had worn off. His arms were littered with scars from the repetition of it, and more recently he had started on his thighs – knowing too well where the arteries were, and how to make it just painful enough to feel it when he walked. No one had noticed, because no one had any reason to. And it still wasn’t enough. Nothing was ever enough.
But letters would make it too obvious, what he’d done. If he could spare them that shame and still find a way out – that was something. So, early that morning – it had started getting light, but the snow was still coming in fits and starts – he went out, pretending he was going into work. Instead he turned away from Bartonburg and from the High Street, intent upon not seeing anyone he knew – if anyone was out in this weather at all. He already felt numb with cold, but he kept trudging on. He was somewhere in Wellingtonshire – he had thought he would pass the cemetery and head out towards the forest, somewhere on the outskirts of town. So that enough time would pass before he was found, after the snow stopped.
He only saw one person in passing, but he had hurried onwards, pretending he hadn’t, and – that was fine. It would be an accidental death when they recovered his body, Ari was sure: he had thought it all through. He had poison in his jacket pocket – in an unmarked flask – because he was still apparently a coward to the end and was scared of it being too uncomfortable without it, dying in the snow. But the residual signs of the poison would be gone by the time they found him, so they could still presume it hypothermia. And – they would grieve, maybe, which he didn’t want; but they would heal sooner or later, and maybe one day some of them would also quietly come to think it a relief.
When he had gotten out past the houses and could walk no more for shivering, and for his legs feeling ready to give out under him, he stopped, and pulled out the flask. His hands were numb, and the lid almost frozen shut, in spite of the warming spells upon it; it took almost more energy than he had to warm it up enough to twist it open.
He had taken out some parchment at his desk, and thought about writing letters. There were people he wanted to say sorry to: his family, Dionisia and Elliott, Ben. But he had done enough to them already, and more words wouldn’t help – actions would serve them better. And – his usual methods weren’t helping him anymore. All the relief of cutting himself had worn off. His arms were littered with scars from the repetition of it, and more recently he had started on his thighs – knowing too well where the arteries were, and how to make it just painful enough to feel it when he walked. No one had noticed, because no one had any reason to. And it still wasn’t enough. Nothing was ever enough.
But letters would make it too obvious, what he’d done. If he could spare them that shame and still find a way out – that was something. So, early that morning – it had started getting light, but the snow was still coming in fits and starts – he went out, pretending he was going into work. Instead he turned away from Bartonburg and from the High Street, intent upon not seeing anyone he knew – if anyone was out in this weather at all. He already felt numb with cold, but he kept trudging on. He was somewhere in Wellingtonshire – he had thought he would pass the cemetery and head out towards the forest, somewhere on the outskirts of town. So that enough time would pass before he was found, after the snow stopped.
He only saw one person in passing, but he had hurried onwards, pretending he hadn’t, and – that was fine. It would be an accidental death when they recovered his body, Ari was sure: he had thought it all through. He had poison in his jacket pocket – in an unmarked flask – because he was still apparently a coward to the end and was scared of it being too uncomfortable without it, dying in the snow. But the residual signs of the poison would be gone by the time they found him, so they could still presume it hypothermia. And – they would grieve, maybe, which he didn’t want; but they would heal sooner or later, and maybe one day some of them would also quietly come to think it a relief.
When he had gotten out past the houses and could walk no more for shivering, and for his legs feeling ready to give out under him, he stopped, and pulled out the flask. His hands were numb, and the lid almost frozen shut, in spite of the warming spells upon it; it took almost more energy than he had to warm it up enough to twist it open.
