As Dallon exits the pharmacy who basically just fucking served as his fucking murder weapon, his heart is in places that it shouldn't be, pacing up and down his throat, flaking off of its nest in his lungs, its heat ghosting over his skin of fluctuating temperature now preserved in the fires of hell, and that's just the way Dallon likes it, for it reminds him of where he's going when those products he purchased charge the destruct button on his life.

He's fine, really. It's just that he's tired, so fucking tired of living, of breathing, of carrying his sins on his shoulders and claiming that he's perfectly normal while others understand enough to know that maybe a statement such as that isn't so veritable, but as much as he tries to sleep, to rest his head on his pillow with the sheets angled over him like curtains to protect against the unforgiving glare of death, his eyes are still bloodshot and alert, awake and prying, desperate and searching for something to save him when the answer has been in front of him all along. Dallon conjectures that these tablets will paint sleep over his lids, so permanent and fulfilling that he will no longer experience the ache of tiredness, and the prospect of this outcome swells his esteem with joy.

So he punctuates his step with a cheer that should not be present but nevertheless is, and he envisions a place to portray his makeshift bed where he can be devoured by the sleep he has not yet obtained though will soon, and it is in an alleyway that he finds his well anticipated solace.

Alleyways are not usually the fortes of normal humans, and that's justifiable. Alleyways are where murders transpire, where illegal drugs are exchanged if the alleyways are desolate enough, where no one dares to look for fear of these things, but today it's an odd sort of comfort to Dallon, the fear having vanished from him primarily because his mind is scarier than an alley could ever be.

He's cognizant that this alleyway is the scene to the ultimatum, to his final death in the most corporal form, and what better place to hold as a witness than a dreary expanse like this? It's not some bustling city environment where everyone will drop to their knees in tears for someone they only know is dead and nothing else. It's not some hospital whose knowledge is just the same, just as phlegmatic. It's not some home setting where people will mourn someone whom they knew very well, unlike the other places, as that only carries destruction, and Dallon doesn't want to hurt his friend. He perceives that he's hurt the man enough, and though Dallon won't be around for the aftermath, he knows his friend will be, and he just can't do something as monstrous as that to the one person whom he loves unconditionally.

Which arguably makes this more of an agonizing process, the process of overdosing, the process of dying, the process of relinquishing any rectitude the charming Dallon Weekes may have possessed to convulse in an alleyway where no one knows he is, where no one thinks he would ever end up, but here he is, and he's accepting death wholeheartedly once he brushes past the anxieties with the maxim that they won't matter when he's decaying, and it's true enough. He needs some truth in his life, in his life that is soon to be fading into memories in his scrapbook back home in France where not even his best friend can view it, so really it's like he did nothing at all for the poor kid, but it's not possible for him to act beneficially now that he's already settled in his murder scene with an array of medicines to strike him down physically and accompany the anecdotes when Dallon has struck himself down mentally.

Kenny, that lovely pharmacy clerk, had no idea that when Dallon stepped out of his store he also stepped out of his body with only his sole to lead him, had no idea that he was aiding Dallon's murder, had no idea that their discussion about Nirvana was mostly a deception to distract Dallon from the very event Kenny spurred to life, if only indirectly, and now Kenny will have no idea that this nice boy who materialized in his pharmaceutical shop will be a nice boy who will materialize in the grave with another nice boy to lament over the love spilled like Dallon's blood this day.

And in some way, it's unfair to Kenny that Dallon is ruining himself like this, especially when it's with products from Kenny's store, products that Kenny himself sold to Dallon without knowing their purpose, because that's against the law, and Kenny regards himself as a person with loads of integrity under his belt who never breaks the law, just as anyone should be, but once again Kenny will have no fucking clue that the dead boy in the alleyway was the same one laughing with him only hours prior to when that boy became dead, and that's okay, too.

These pills are the only things Dallon has ever demanded, outweighing even the love of friends and the support of family, because he recognizes that both of those are impossible to attain when you're someone like him, someone who isolates himself to shun his obvious phobia of human judgment, someone who can't separate hatred from indifference, someone who decided to consume these items because he never received what he deserved and it's now paying off in his downfall, so it's more than admissible for him to be ingesting them soon, as they were never available so encouragingly to him before.

He doesn't think of his friend when he cracks open the bottle of Tums. He doesn't think of his friend when he discards the Pepto Bismol because of how it stains his tongue in displeasure even after he promised that his poison doesn't have to be suitable to his taste buds, but he comprehends that he's selfish and picky and needs finer details like this for him to flourish in his last moments, and he'll be despising himself until death. He still doesn't think of his friend when he loads a tablet into his mouth like the gun whom he concluded was too messy to kill him, when he smiles at what's to grab his neck to strangle him, to wrestle him six feet through the dirt, and soon there are more and more pills secured behind his lips as Dallon is steadily approaching the mark where remedies are more dangerous than helpful, where an overdose is the final zenith of his trials, where he can be safe in his actions and in his casket.

There's a smile on Dallon's cheeks as he pops another pill every sixty seconds, because he is certain that his battles will cease, that his spirit will perish, that everything he's fought for will be acquired in a matter of minutes, and that's simply delightful to him, though it's not so delightful to the people around him, but they've never been here for his success anyway. They've only been here for to witness his pain and the glory of announcing that they helped him when all they brought to the table was their neurotypical backwash. Even then, however, no one shows up donning armor and defending his mind from attack, so because of that, pills seem like a better alternative to obliterate the war in its entirety, all of its soldiers included.

His mistake was that he kept looking in the mirror in the hopes of finding the monstrous person that he knew he was so that the lines casting a haze over his perception could finally be cleared, but all he saw in that mundane piece of glass was this man who seemed normal enough to pass as a human, and it was surprisingly evident to him in this moment that what this meant wasn't that he would be a functional member of society, but that no one could hear him cry for help behind this mask of security. He's free now, with these layers of medicine upon his lap, ascending towards an overdose.

This type of dying is necessary, and he wishes that his petit ami would see that, so stricken by fog that health is a mess in his head. Yes, this is incredibly painful and abusive and incurable, but it's also the motive to exhume the fact that while Dallon has always thought that suicide would be his greatest enemy, in this alleyway it's nothing more than an old friend.

The Tums package had instructed him to never eat more than ten individual pieces in a twenty-four hour period, so Dallon codes his body for fourteen, his favorite number to fit this situation where his preferences will be acknowledged, and it is with this final tablet that his blooming symptoms are made clear.

His head pounds against the air for release, like a battering ram of blood is spazzing against his skull, back and forth and back and forth until it feels as though he can endure it no longer, though it won't be much longer anyway. His muscles are rocks leaping over water, oxen towing carts with the concept of freedom a fresh topic in their minds as they tug unsuccessfully at the ropes shackling them to slavery. He is swerving in and out of focus, each blink a blur and a flash of color strewn haphazardly across his vision as if it's a coping mechanism for a solitary child. Every tale of seasickness is floundering inside his stomach all at once, the screaming of sailors as they bail the excess of liquid from the boat too vivid for him to handle. Sweat hangs like willow branches from his forehead, from the fabric of his dirtied skin, flowering as a significant factor of his doom. By now he's unsure of where he is in the most literal way possible, because he's always been confused of where his mind has gone, but nothing is distinguishable anymore — not the apple spraypainted on the wall, not the words of "je n'aime que toi" printed underneath, not his trembling fingers endeavoring weakly to clutch his murder weapon, not anything but labyrinths and shrieking and anguish. He is aware that this cocktail of sensations is like a prison break from the jail of Dallon's organism, and yet he's flowing willingly along with it.

As a child, he was waiting for the stars to move while the stars were waiting for him to move, but he couldn't do such a thing, as he was chained to a tether so controlling that the stars' movement was the only thing to aid him, but they only claimed that he was too childish for his own good, so he grew up prematurely and will now die prematurely. It's what those stars he loved would've wanted.

All he needed was to impress someone.

~~~~~

A/N: oh my fucking god how many of you are crying

Quaruto: do you watch anime

Aruto: okay I know this is such an off-topic thing to be discussing when I just broke your hearts, but I would just like to clarify that I am not a weeb and I don't watch anime because I've heard that it is hell and annoying and takes up too much of your youtube suggestion feed when you've been listening to sad music lately so no I do not but there was this huge anime guy on a sheet of paper hanging in the P.E. office and I think I died

~Dakweeb