finally_ahead (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
finally_ahead) wrote2024-01-27 12:53 pm
finally_ahead) wrote2024-01-27 12:53 pm
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Stanley Uris wakes up one morning, and there's a pile of papers on his typically immaculate desk.
Even though he's never seen them before, a sort of numbness spreads through his limbs. That's his own writing, and the sight of it nearly pins him to his bed. Only after what feels like hours of forcing breath through his body, what his clock tells him is two minutes, can he stand up and go over. Six papers, all of them identical.
He takes the one on top back to his bed, and folds his legs up under him as he smooths the paper out.
Dear Losers, it reads.
I know what this must seem like, but this is not a suicide note.
He wants to close his eyes. He wants to tear up the note. He knows what it is, even if he doesn't know when, or how, or-- no. He does know why.
It's hard to read the rest of the letter as it shakes in his hands, and upon bolting back over to the pile of them, he pushes through the same letter five more times.
His eyes burn and he can't breathe. He doesn't notice when one singular letter escapes being stuffed in his backpack as Stan makes a break for it. Taking the care doesn't occur to him, despite the weather, his bike leaving an unsteady line in the snow as he peddles.
The cold feels good on his bare arms. Clean.
He can't be sure where he's going, just that he's probably almost there when his bike slides and he wipes out hard.
I took myself off the board. Did it work?
That's the fucking thing.
He's pretty sure it did.
Even though he's never seen them before, a sort of numbness spreads through his limbs. That's his own writing, and the sight of it nearly pins him to his bed. Only after what feels like hours of forcing breath through his body, what his clock tells him is two minutes, can he stand up and go over. Six papers, all of them identical.
He takes the one on top back to his bed, and folds his legs up under him as he smooths the paper out.
Dear Losers, it reads.
I know what this must seem like, but this is not a suicide note.
He wants to close his eyes. He wants to tear up the note. He knows what it is, even if he doesn't know when, or how, or-- no. He does know why.
It's hard to read the rest of the letter as it shakes in his hands, and upon bolting back over to the pile of them, he pushes through the same letter five more times.
His eyes burn and he can't breathe. He doesn't notice when one singular letter escapes being stuffed in his backpack as Stan makes a break for it. Taking the care doesn't occur to him, despite the weather, his bike leaving an unsteady line in the snow as he peddles.
The cold feels good on his bare arms. Clean.
He can't be sure where he's going, just that he's probably almost there when his bike slides and he wipes out hard.
I took myself off the board. Did it work?
That's the fucking thing.
He's pretty sure it did.