He trudged through the main hallway of his trailer. Framed pictures lined the wall, dark forest-green blood painting over one of the photographs in spatters.
"I walk mindlessly, planning it out in my head. Even if it doesn't work the way I want it to, at least I'll be hurting. I deserved it."
"I have to do it fast, and now, or else I'll never do it."
"I won't have to look at this house anymore."
"I always dreamed of this day, when I would die. When I would kill myself."
It wasn't as romantic as the internet wanted it to be. He wasn't an angel, and he wasn't going fucking home.
The pills clung to the back of his throat; he wolfed them down with the help of a long, skinny bottle of alcohol he held. He took a swig of it, finding himself with three empty bottles of rum moments later.
"I don't deserve anything."
He woke up, his movements slow and gradual, his arms weighted. His eyelids hung low, the air heavy and choking. Bright lights stabbed into his vision, and his throat stung. He glanced around for a moment, taking in his surroundings. In a hospital bed he laid; it was excruciatingly cold, icy, his fingertips numb. Two chairs which sat beside him were empty. He thought he could almost feel a presence, like someone were here, but when he blinked open his eyes, nothing was there.
Just before, he had appeared in a chair beside Keanu's head.
He vanished, taking Keanu's heart locket with him - a picture of him, Keanu and their dog it contained.