A Realistic Pokemon RP
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tw: attempted suicide, depression, abuse
His life is filled with beautiful things. There are flowers in his garden in hand-made clay pots, flowers sat in vases on the tables, flowers hand-painted on the wall.
His death, he thinks, will be the most beautiful thing of all.
In the silence of his shadowed bedroom, his heart pounds in protest of the end. He lays his head back with eyes closed, flower petals at his fingertips. They are withered, crumbling things, for even in his selfishness he could not bring himself to pluck living flowers from the garden.
He counts the seconds to the rhythm of a ticking clock, wonders absently how long it will tick after his heart stops beating.
Wednesday, 6:08PM. His phone rings, but he doesn’t hear it.
He can’t bring himself to say goodbye.
As he sits on the balcony of his small flat, watching the vivillon attracted to his potted plants, he holds the tip of his joint to carefully penned letters.
He couldn’t even say goodbye to the butterflies, or to the fairy pokemon that visited him on sunny afternoons. They wouldn’t have the words to say it back.
He wonders if they’ll miss him. His family, he knows, haven’t missed him at all.
It’s a Wednesday when he writes his letters, two months late.
He isn’t ready. He never will be.
He makes his decision on a Monday.
Saturday. That’s when he’ll do it. It’s been a busy month at work, and he can’t inconvenience his boss by leaving her shorthanded for the week. She’d have to make up a whole new schedule, and Louie's been sick, and Cecile has got her kids to worry about.
He thinks of quitting, but he doesn’t want them to ask why. He doesn't want them to worry.
When Saturday comes around, he decides he’ll suffer one more week. Just until they stop needing him. Then, he thinks, he’ll be ready.
The pills never worked.
They line the bathroom cabinet like macabre trophies, a dozen orange bottles scattered among toothpaste and dental floss, a dull razor resting at the bottom. He hasn’t shaved in days. It’s hard enough to muster the energy to get out of bed.
He’d stopped taking his medications months ago.
His life lacks definition.
Without his family, Eric had become the centre of his universe.
(— who still texts, even though his number’s been blocked, still calls, still gets drunk and shows up at the door at 4AM, crying and begging or screaming threats —)
—he is nothing at all.
It’s been three years and things have gone from bad to worse, but he covers up bruises and makes excuses, because Eric is the only one who says I love you any more, and sometimes it’s easy to believe he means it, and other times he just pretends.
He goes to a doctor in secret.
He feels like a guinea pig, trying new pills like it’s going out of style, his mind a mess of side-effects and complications. It’s easy to hide it; he grew up on hiding.
He remembers with dread how Eric had reacted when he’d first brought up the idea of counselling, the volume of his voice, the sound of breaking glass.
He’s trying to get healthy, but he feels dirty, feels wrong—
Years later, he won’t remember when it falls apart.
Somewhere between the end and the beginning, Eric’s loving embrace becomes a ball and chain. Their home becomes a prison, their love a distant memory.
He jumps at shadows, flinches with every loud noise.
Everything he has, he owes to Eric.
His older sister, away at college, will text him to ask how he’s doing.
His parents will delete the message, and he will never know.
Eric is there for him when his parents kick him out.
He is numb, empty, and he doesn’t say anything in the car. He stares listlessly out the window at the trees blurring by, the Kalos sunset catching in their leaves.
His life rests in the back seat, in a plastic bag with the PokeMart logo. Everything he owns now courtesy of his boyfriend, whose hand on his knee is the only thing keeping him from falling apart. They hadn’t even let him take a change of clothes.
He is nothing to them. Unworthy.
They weren’t supposed to find out.
He forces words he’d never meant to speak past trembling lips, sweaty hands twisting anxiously in his lap. The kitchen table is bright, rustic wood painted vibrant colours and swirling patterns that bathe in the glow of a fading sun. He’d painted it himself.
His father has never been so quiet. His mother doesn’t look him in the eye.
The first time he falls in love, his world falls apart.
He is the pride and joy of his parents.
He is the biological child they never thought they'd have, heir to his father's name, sunshine in their dreary halls. They invest everything in him.
His future is never his own. They tell him what to wear, what to say, how to act. He's too young when they start talking about grandchildren, what sort of woman he'll marry, how important it is to continue his father's legacy.
Pressure, so much pressure, but he wants to be the best, wants them to be proud, wants to be loved—
When he is born, they do not call him Dorian.
(He is Gabriel, but that name belongs to someone else, a different boy with a different life who should have been more to his parents than a disappointment.)
After he comes out to them, they don’t call him anything at all.
Dorian doesn’t talk about Gabriel.
He considers his past in chapters, pages of a book he’s long since closed. One for the small, sad boy who hid his glow beneath shame and secrecy, another for the tortured man burning letters on a lonely balcony.
These are not things that happened to Dorian.
Gabriel was darkness; Dorian is the sun. He is bright and vibrant and alive.
Gabriel dies on a Wednesday, a few hours before he calls the ambulance to his apartment. Sometimes, when he is alone, Gabriel inhabits his shadows and the privacy of his thoughts, but Dorian is stronger than Gabriel ever was. He is born on a Sunday with a degree in hand and a Sylveon nestled comfortably at his feet.
He defines himself in new ways: researcher, artist, writer, explorer.