Parts of an Old Script

Before I wrote YOU and HIM, there was another game that I was working on in the past. A little while back, I decided to try taking a crack at it again, but just wrote it in a one off sort of setting and never finished it. I'm not sure I ever will (at least not until I have more time), but I figure I'd share that script with you.

TW for the following script : Implied suicide, suicidal ideation, mentions of parental neglect, and dark humor

Please do not read if you are not in a place to do so and stay safe <3

------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Dear reader,

If you're reading this…

I'm gone.

And you, my dear friend…

Are most definitely trespassing.

I mean seriously, breaking into a dead guy's apartment who offed himself?

The audacity.

But if you want to take anything you're going to end up sorely disappointed when I tell you I do not have the PS10.

I know I know. You and I are both crying.

Wait, no actually it's just you, considering you're reading my suicide note.

Shit. I'm getting distracted.

Anyway…what do people even put down on their suicide notes? My ADHD cannot. 

It's like a hive of buzzing bees in here that are not in sync unless they're distracted by the same shiny object. 

But anyway. Back to the topic from before.

You suck, get out of my apartment, and at least call an emergency helpline so my body doesn't stink up the other poor neighbors' apartments.

While people will forget about me, they will never forget about the smell of a dead person.

Trust me on that. 

Unless the person reading this is emergency services and just doing their job and now I'm a man accusing an innocent person of doing some illegal stuff. 

Question is: who told you I did what I did, then?

Wait no. I think I've got an idea. 

It could be that the stink already permeated throughout the entire complex and someone got sent to investigate, right?

That's another alternative right there. 

Or maybe rent is well overdue and the landlord had to break open my door in order to get inside and now I'm just a dead guy mocking said landlord.

Which, by the way, if it's you.

Hi, Jerry.

Sorry about the cleanup.

Even if your prices of rent are astronomical

But seriously, my bad.

…

…

Damn, there's a lot of variables to this whole thing isn't there?

…

“Why do I not assume it's anyone close to me reading this?”

Yeah. Yeah.

I know what you’re thinking.

I might not be there…

But I can see the look on your face.

Heh. Sorry.

That's an obvious answer isn't it?

I don't have anyone in my life who would care enough.

Or at least not anymore.

…

Please don't make that face. 

You know what I'm talking about. 

It's the one filled with pity that says I have to have someone who cares about me that'll miss me when I die.

But I don't. Okay?

 I don't.

…

...

Damn. I know. 

I'm getting serious now.

Way to put a damper on a suicide note, Matthew. 

…

Yeah. My name is Matthew.

Go check my drivers license if you don't believe me.

Don't know why you wouldn't though.

What is it about this freckled face that doesn't scream Matthew?

Seriously, you're silly, judging people by not fitting their names when you're the one who broke into my apartment to steal my nonexistent PS10.

…

Unless you're not.

Which, oops, my bad.

But I like the idea of someone accidentally stumbling into my apartment, thinking they're getting something pretty only to find my dead disapproving corpse staring back at them.

Nothing makes you rethink your life choices more than finding a dead man does it?

…

You know. It's weird to think about.

Me just…not existing anymore.

Calling myself dead.

Acknowledging that I'm no longer going to be here or wake up every morning struggling to get out of bed.

My entire life—gone. 

Finished. 

Finite. 

Unlike all of my writing projects with all those unfinished drafts filling up my Woogle Drive folders. Incomplete with no real end.

Or maybe…they're more similar than I realized?

Most people will say my life got cut short, much like my stories.

Or they would if anyone cared enough which I sincerely doubt, except maaaaaaaaaaaaybe for the guy I buy donuts from on 4th street. 

He's going to lose a lot of sales. 

I'm pretty sure I'm the main reason why he's still open.

…

You know, I always hoped to do something that left an impact on the world before I peaced out voluntarily or got run over by a mysteriously timed truck like something out of an isekai anime.

No. No. 

Not, I didn't want to make an impact by eating a shit ton of donuts, but with my writing I mean. 

My stamp on the world.

I figure if the people who were supposed to love me don't care about me, then maybe strangers would resonate with me, but…

Yeah. Never share your works online.

Or do. I mean it's your life not mine.

I just know my work was considered pretentious by some and outright dog shit by others.

It also got very few reads.

And by those who did read it, it wasn't well received. 

So I guess it affected me in some capacity. I stopped wanting to share my writing and preferred to keep things to myself after a certain point.

But then I asked myself, why write if I'm not going to share it with anyone?

Sure, you can say they're just words on a screen or printed piece of paper if you go for a physical copy made just for yourself.

And you can also argue that it helps to write for yourself if it's what you love doing. 

But I wanted to write to connect with people.

I've always had a hard time putting my thoughts out there while trying to speak aloud, so using a different format just makes sense. 

Not to mention it's kind of a mood killer when you just want to scream “end me!” in the middle of a busy street and the people you're screaming it to are complete strangers.

Apparently, it's not very socially acceptable.

Who would've guessed? 

So…

Writing is my way of screaming out loud in a socially acceptable way. 

It's the singular outlet that lets me free the voices in my head. 

I guess that's also why I'm writing this note, huh?

One last time I can write and express myself before I end things here.

…

I didn't want to end things here.

I tried, you know?

I really

Really

Really

Really

Tried.

But…

I'm tired.

I make jokes, but that's just…me.

…

…

You really want to know my story, huh?

Learning about my hobbies just isn't enough, now you want to know more about me as a person because you're curious.

Or maybe…

This is me just hoping you are.

Someone curious enough about me to want to stick around and know my story.

To know who I was. To know the things I loved. To know what led me to this.

Everyone's story is different when they get to this point. 

But our resolution is the same.

It's sad…

Isn't it? 

Knowing that won't stop me though.

But maybe it'll help you hold the person you care about tighter at night.

Watch over them. Ask if they're okay. Check in.

Notice if they get a shitty haircut.

See mine? Many regrets.

I'm going to be buried like this, you know.

Shitty haircut and all.

Aaaaaaaaaaaaand now you're laughing. 

…

Look I thought zebra stripes looked cool okay?

But I do not have the bone structure to pull it off.

Maybe if there's a next life? 

Wait.

Do I even want a next life?

Ah. Getting distracted again, right right right.

Now, where were we?

Oh yeah. My backstory. My history. What makes me, me.

…

…

Fuck, I didn't really think I'd get this far. 

I know some people who end their lives have many different reasons. And I can't comment on them.

I'm not a professional on the subject for crying out loud.

I just know what I know is true for myself though it might not be for others. 

I can only share my personal experiences. 

How I feel.

Why I'm doing this.

How I ended up thinking the world's better off without me. 

Because it is.

And it will be.

It really will.

That's all I can believe at this point. 

…
...

My life…

Is a cultivation of mistakes and heavy regrets. 

My mom and father weren't the best of people. They said they wanted kids, but didn't know how to raise us or feed us most days.

We survived on cheap bread and dollar store goods. 

…

I know. Here comes the sad, traumatic background.

Let's start playing the wooful violin while we're at it. 

No seriously—put a little mood music on, a little sad piano to top it all off, and get yourself into the headspace.

I won't judge you.

God will though.

Not me.

God.

Then again who knows if He or She or They exist. 

Couldn't tell you.

Wait no, I'm might be able to soon enough.

But anyway…you got your music playing?

Cool, cool.

Ahem. You can't hear me clearing my throat, but I am. 

Wait, hold on a second.

…

…

Okay, I didn't take it all. Just a few to start with.

To dip my toes in. 

Just two small pills.

The normal prescribed amount.

Now to continue like I haven't tried putting this off for the past few minutes in an effort not to share despite the part of me wanting at least someone to know my story.

At least I took the first step.

So…

…

…

Okay, I took two more.

I can do this.

I can talk about my parents and my childhood and my mommy and daddy issues like I'm lying on a therapist's couch. 

Question is.

Do I want to?

My parents weren't good people.

And maybe that's all you need to know.

When I turned 18 I left home and never looked back. 

And it's not like they're what's making me want to jump off a proverbial cliff.

…

…

Okay. Maybe a little. 

I wanted parents who loved me. Who doesn't?

An unconditional love that you can run to in your darkest hour?

I really wanted that.

Yet, I never got it.

But Matthew, a lot of people have horrible parents and they aren't doing this. Learn to take a chill pill. 

Yeah, well...

What can I say?

It hurts. 

…

Plus chill pills are spendy suckers so fight me reader.

Fight me. 

Anyway, yeah I don't have parents who love me. They wanted kids, but hated the responsibility that came with us and as soon as I moved out they never tried contacting me again.

And I never tried contacting them.

I did try reaching out to my siblings over WacBook, but never got a reply.

Heh. Maybe if you've finally read the message and are here now…

...

Shit. I'm sorry.

I hope it's not you.

You shouldn't see something like this.

I hope it's not you.

And I hope you didn't get into my apartment somehow.

…

…

I hope it's not one of you.

You don't need to see your big brother like this.

You were the only good things in my life, you know?