it's going to be okay to die.

2022 07 04

content warnings

this is fiction that is heavily based on our own thoughts and feelings, and in particular, fears, we've had over time.

since it is fictitious, we've tried to keep content warnings accurate without spoiling the contents. it is very important to us that we do not state the things we were writing about explicitly in the content warnings.

self death, spiral, major negative mental health and intense self harm.

story

the little came out of its home in a snowy winter evening. the lights from the pretty, continuously interconnected french buildings constructed from bricks, softly illuminated the street buried under the snow with a faint, gentle red glow.

her expression blank, she stares across the thin snow covered street through the trees for several moments. she's dressed lightly for the temperature, and has one hand closed, as if holding something. she begins walking along the street under the void-like sky. the trees cast regular shadows along her and the street and block the lights from fully reaching either.

she walked and walked until she reached the transit stop on a nearby, much busier street, also blanketed in snow. she waited. waited and waited and waited. until the first bus arrived, and then the next, and kept waiting. she was waiting for someone.

hours pass, and the busses stop running. it's past midnight, snowfall has began to rain from the sky. the snow clouds create a calming grey sky and seem to cast the same calming light onto the ground's surface.

her expression changes now, for the first time all night. face red and covered in tears. the water only attracts the cold around her. she can't feel her frostbite, but knows it's coming.

they take their sweater off, and place it on the snow adjacent to the transit stop. she lays on it, curled up, tired, waiting for mommey to come home.

good girls wait for their mommey.

her now visible arms were once the battlefield of many, many cuts. they are scathed and nearly unrecognisable from their previous form. a handful of the cuts seem very new, further evidenced by the blood stains on the inside-out sweater its laying on.

her final thoughts force her to miss her soft friends, who she misses almost as much as her mommey. her crying deepens; she wishes that she could be with them, just be with them. safe together, loving each other. safety. love.

she is slowly buried by the elegant veil of snowflakes falling ontop of her. morning comes, the first bus comes, and is followed by many more for the morning rush hour. but no one emerges from them. the little is all alone. she's gone.

her housemates took some time to realise she was gone; noon the next day, when one of them realised the little hadn't been with them this morning or last night.

they entered the little's room, and didn't find them. it was abandoned. she left to be with her mommey the night before. they didn't know this. they investigated.

they did find her computer, which appeared to have been set ablaze from the inside, with the case left open. the components are covered in somewhat fresh bloodstains. it's on the floor and broken. except for the harddrive, which has been delicately preserved on the former computer's desk's top.

they looked around more, alarmed. they found her soft, plush friends on their bed, tucked under the cute blankies with her favourite colours and special interests. they were tied to photographs and letters. the soft friends had crude drawings of hearts all over their bodies, a handful drawn with the little's blood.

the room had clean clothes messily thrown everywhere on the surface (some with dampened moist spots), a rucksack which had its contents hurriedly drained onto the floor, many bloody tissues, an alarming number of ultra sharp razor blades. zero little girls.

it was hers, and she was gone now. she couldn't have it anymore. she didn't want it. she just wanted mommey. her room was still lovingly decorated for her as if she was still there; a constant reminder she was gone.

the housemates found a letter and a pen among the largest pile of bloodied tissues. it talked about the littles' mommey, and how she loved them. all she loved about them, why, specific memories, in detail, followed by a unrelated to-do list, presumably as a reference for the little. it read excited and affectionate; happy. it read like the most excited event planning journal, listing her goals and near-future tasks happily and lovingly. had the letter not been dated with the night prior, or placed in her own, destroyed, room, the housemates would have never realised it was a suicide note. the letter was far more grim than it appeared.

a suicide note she wrote to highlight how she'd never get to have anything written on the letter. a suicide note to mock herself with. she did it to hurt herself, and it helped convince her she was going to kill herself instead of ever doing any of the things written on the letter.

the little will never get to see her mommey again. it was all she wanted, more than anything else.

she knew she never would get to see her mommey again, long before she died.

her former plex figured this out as they searched the room more and shared conversations they had with the little with each other, and they realised far too late. all of the little's words were secretly laced deeply with the grim knowledge of her own intentions and fate.

they couldn't have stopped her anyways. she just wanted mommey. more than anything else, she wanted to be with mommey.

empty.