It was a rather cloudy day when Tristan woke up for the last time. The dark storm clouds brought an even darker mood to his apartment.
"I suppose it's fitting," Tristan muttered to himself. "Cloudy on the day I end it all."
Tristan had already arranged his letters to everyone he needed to. He only hoped that they would make the impact he wanted.
It was too late for him, but maybe his friends and family could make a difference to somebody else.
Tristan started to prepare what would be his final meal. A sweet breakfast of cinnamon rolls, slathered in cream cheese frosting. His favorite.
The sweet frosting melted on his tongue, filling his mouth with the sweet flavor.
"It's a pity life can't be this sweet." Tristan thought out loud. "Maybe then it would be worth living."
The last few months, no, last few years Tristan had been living in a fog. He'd merely survived, going through the daily motions. Wake, eat, work, sleep, repeat.
His life had been unfulfilling, not worth living. So, a few weeks ago he'd made the decision to end it all. And now that everything was sorted out, it was finally time.
Tristan walked to the bathroom, slowly opening the door. He felt strangely calm, at peace with his decision. He supposed having weeks to brace himself for it allowed him to make peace with it.
Tristan didn't particularly believe in an afterlife, but if there was one, he hoped to end up wherever he'd feel the most at peace.
Pulling a razorblade off the shelf, Tristan stepped into the bathtub. He sat down, revealing the extremely sharp blade. Tristan held the blade to his arm, his hand shaking.
For a moment he hesitated before recommitting himself.
The razor-sharp blade pierced his skin, sending spikes of pain up his arm and into the rest of his body.
He slowly cut down from top of his forearm to his wrist, opening a gaping bloody wound in his arm. Moving on to the other arm, a symmetrical wound soon appeared on his other arm.
Blood rushed from the wounds, surrounding Tristan in a small pool of his own blood.
As he bled out in the bathtub, Tristan's life flashed before his eyes. He remembered when he was seven, he got a puppy for his birthday. He'd been so happy to have a pet of his own, Rufus.
They'd been inseparable until Rufus grew old and died. Tristan cried for days afterward, missing his best friend, that ever loyal german shepherd.
Tristan's mind wove through his childhood. As he thought back on it, maybe his childhood hadn't been as horrible as he'd perceived it to be.
His father had worked hard to provide them with a very nice house, and they'd frequently gone on vacation to awesome places.
That was until they stopped going places, and the arguing had intensified. As Tristan entered his teenage years, he and his parents stopped getting along and constantly argued.
Soon after that, Tristan had met Felix, Henry, and Halia. He'd turned to them as his second family, the ones that wouldn't argue with him over little things.
But he never felt like he fit in with them. It was like they were in a league of their own and he was just their ride.
In a moment of clarity, Tristan could see how much they really had included him. They would text him out of nowhere and ask if he wanted to go to the mall or go bowling with them.
He'd just failed to see the positive because of the drama at home. after they'd graduated, they'd drifted apart, moving on with their lives.
After High School, Tristan had gotten a job at a call center. It didn't pay very well, but it kept him in a decent little apartment.
There he'd endured days of angry customers, unfriendly coworkers, and a jerk manager. It eventually got into his head, filling it even more with negative thoughts.
Voices in his head telling him he wasn't enough, he wasn't worthy of love. Voices telling him he didn't deserve to live.
And all of that had led him to this point, all alone, bleeding to death in a tiny little apartment. Tristan snapped out of the memories.
Even though he was as good as dead at this point, his mind was clearer than it had been in years. Everything suddenly made sense.
He'd always been too worried about what others think. Tristan had put others opinions above his own. He'd been too afraid of what others would think of him to truly live his life.
His life had been unlived. He'd failed to appreciate himself, to love himself. He could have done so much more, lived so much more.
If only he'd realized sooner that the opinion of others didn't matter, didn't define who he was.
"I don't want to go." Tristan whispered as his mind started to slow from blood loss. "I could do so much more! I have so much to live for!"
Tristan tried to haul himself out of the bathtub, to find help. But he'd lost too much blood. His arms offered no support, and he collapsed back into the bathtub.
He started to cry as the last drops of blood bled from his wounds. If only he could get out of here, find help. He could turn his life around, make it worth living. But it was too late for him.
Tristan stared emptily at the ceiling as the final drop of blood dripped from his arm. His last tear rolled down his cheek as his world went black.
His life had gone unappreciated, unloved, unlived.