Anachronistic Melancholia

by WickedLSDragon

Rating: mature
Tags: Slice of Life, Human, Dark, Sad, Tragedy
Length: 915

Harris Alistair, an eighteen year old homeless, depressed, forgotten boy decides that the cure for the disease known as life, is death. But when he wakes to find himself in another world, he realizes his second chance...

"Life, such a disgusting lie filled with pain. Oh, how I disdain every living thing and wish for the bane that is death. A cure to end this misery, a way to stop this sad vitality that continues with every breath. I want peace, I seek solace. So for my release, I will live less, and let death hold me with felicity. Then, I will finally be free, truly, and happily."

Published 1970-01-01 00:00:00 UTC
Last updated 2015-08-04 04:50:50 UTC

Prologue: Suicide

"Life, such a disgusting lie filled with pain. Oh, how I disdain every living thing and wish for the bane that is death. A cure to end this misery, a way to stop this sad vitality that continues with every breath. I want peace, I seek solace. So for my release, I will live less, and let death hold me with felicity. Then, I will finally be free, truly, and happily."

Harris mentally composes his woeful poetry as he sits on the edge of a ten story abandoned building in the run-down area of the city. He holds a bottle of Disorono in one hand, halfway drained, and five empty boxes of Coricidin Cough and Cold medicine surround him. He looks out to the urban landscape, the lights of people continuing with their daily routines. They are all oblivious to his pain, to him.

"Nothing new there..." He whispers, taking another drink from the bottle of alcohol.

"All my life... no one has noticed. I suppose I was just too good at hiding. And lying."

Another swig from the bottle.

"All of those 'friends' and 'family'... Huh, they didn't really care. They didn't really want me, no one has. And no one will."

Another drink.

"People are so blind, so ignorant to the suffering of others. While they will go out and waste money on stupid fucking frivolous shit, children all around the world will starve to death. Or maybe just die from infections or disease. Oh, even better, maybe they will get raped and brutally tortured before they are blessed with death." His small rant to the world does nothing but fuel his despair, and he further ignites it with another tip of the bottle.

He stays quiet as he studies the urban landscape. Hearing traffic and sirens in the distance accompanied by the grating sounds of a train coming to a halt.

"Why is this my life? Why is this me? Why? Why? Why?" Harris slams the bottom of the bottle down on the stone ledge where he sits, "WHY?" slam, "WHY!?" slam, the glass shatters as it contacts the solid rock beneath it. The contents of the bottle cover Harris' side and leg, dripping to the asphalt ten stories below.

". . . Why? . . ." His momentary rage escapes, and leaves a cavity of despair and anguish behind.

"Because, life is hard, terrible, and overall objectively pointless."

Harris turned to where he heard the voice come from. To his left, there sits himself. The apparition is much like himself, but darker, grey. It had medium black hair, grey camouflage cargo pants, and a black T-shirt. It's skin seemed to be smeared in ash, and he couldn't see it if he looked directly at the ghostly entity. But if he saw it through his periphery, then the ephemeral mirage became evident.

"Didn't expect this." Harris mumbled to himself.

"Expect what?" The shadow apparition asked, it's voice heavy and burdened with sorrow.

"I knew that I would be hallucinating. I've overdosed on triple c's before, but you're new. Never seen anything like you. Or even interacted with'em. Just saw some shit move in ways it wasn't supposed to. Well, I did take five boxes. And alcohol. Wait, each box has sixteen pills, each pill has thirty milligrams of dxm . . . That adds up to . . . Ten times thirty is three hundred, six times thirty is one eighty . . . So four hundred and eighty milligrams in a box. Now four eighty times five is . . ."

"Two thousand and four hundred milligrams of dextromethorphan hydrobromide is coursing through you system. As well as the better part of a liter of sixty proof alcohol. You will die, you know that right?" The apathetic shadow clone informed.

"That's the plan."

"Well, it should be painless, mostly."

"Hopefully. So... Um, fuck. It's getting hard to think. I feel... lethargic. And my extremities are numb." Harris emphasized this by clawing at the stone ledge, trying to feel it.

"Well... Shit!" The suicidal teen had a sinking feeling hit him with all the force of a sledgehammer.

Fuck! I'm really gonna-

"Die, yes you are. Wasn't that the 'plan'?" The shadow seemed to integrate a light tone of mockery as it said this.

"Yeah, but now there's nothing I can do about it. It... It just sucks when I can't con-control... Things..." Harris' speech was beginning to become slurred and difficult to piece together. He could feel a wave of euphoria and numbness cascade over him, bathing him in the effects of the combined substances he ingested.

"Do you want to live?" The query perplexed the intoxicated Harris as he thought for a bit.

"Fuck no. Not in this way. Mab... Maybe if I could live as, in a fantasy world. Dragons, magic... Swords and shit. Something fun and exciting..." Harris rounded up his thoughts as well as he could in his condition.

"And-and some friends. Real friends. People who give a shit about me. But... Fuck. Too late now. Too late now..." Harris fell onto his side, precariously laying along the edge of the rooftop. Unconsciousness swiftly approaching him as he closed his eyes, and embraced the approaching nothingness.

"Perhaps, perhaps not. Let us see."

The sad voice was the last thing Harris heard as he felt a weightlessness engulf him. Then, he was swept into an altered state of consciousness known as sleep. Blessed, peaceful, sleep...