[fancypost bordercolor=transparent; width: 400px; text-align: justify]warning for: suicide, self harm, blood, death
tl;dr: billy kills himself
word count: 3312
[hr]
Take in a deep breath. This story will only last as long as you can hold in that big gulp of air. For those of you with weak lungs, by the end of this you'll be seeing spots. Dizzy. Light-headed. Your whole body will be screaming at you to just let go, you fucking idiot, breathe.
Don't listen. Be strong -- hold it in. Just when you think you're about to pass out, this story will be over. It'll be done and you can go back to your normal, breath-filled life. Ready? Start.
Cut to our opening scene. William 'Billy' Bibbit, ex-Bodyguard Initiate of ColouredClan, ex-Knight of the Knights of Eden, ex-patient of the Ward, dead on the floor. A bloody shard of glass cutting into his paw. A laceration across his neck. Lifeless. Gone. Poof.
Let's back it up a little. Or a lot.
Our story starts approximately fifteen months ago. To be a little more precise, it starts on April 24th, 2014 in the heat of spring. Most people don't really recall the day as anything special. Just another rainy day. But to one William Bibbit, the day would be, arguably, one of the most important in his life. The charcoal Bengal tabby was born into a horrendous, shit-filled world, one where filth and squalor ruled these streets with an iron fist. Born in the same world the rest of us were.
Maybe if he'd known what he was getting into, he would've come out a little earlier. A miscarriage. Dead from the start, no room to fuck up because, let's face it, he already did. Big time. No one would hold him to the things he needed to do or tell him how to act. They'd just bury him with his responsibilities. They wouldn't even mourn his loss -- they'd mourn the idea of Billy. All the things he could've been if he was alive. He could've been the best damn son there was when he was dead -- no one would ever know.
But he didn't die. No, he thrived. Psychically, at least. From a young age, the little feline was the epitome of physical health. Of course, allergies still bested him once in awhile, but that happens to even the best of us.
However inside that little, picture-perfect cat lived a wide variety of problems. From the moment he spoke, anyone could tell he was... different. Wrong. A mistake. Clinical depression, General Anxiety Disorder, and Dependent Personality Disorder were only a few mistakes in the blueprint.
Or at least that was how everyone else perceived him. To Billy, he didn't know of any other neurotypical life. Just his.
Maybe that's where his mother got her, ah, over-protectiveness of Billy. Maybe she actually was a caring mother, one who only wanted what was best for her dearest child. She just wished him a long, happy life. She didn't want his mental illness to burden him any more than it had to.
Or maybe she was just a manipulative bitch.
Whatever the truth was, the demiboy saw her as the former. She just loved him was all. Tough love. Screaming love. You're-not-the-son-anyone-wanted love. You know. Typical motherly love.
So he grew. And grew and grew. He lived with his gentle old mother. As for his father? You tell him. He didn't know of such a person -- his mother only brushed the questions off. He got the drift after while. Once a simple question begging, "Mama? Wh-wh-where's dad?" ended with a slice in Billy's ear.
Little Billy's life, aside from isolated incidents like that, was otherwise uneventful. He remained cooped up with his mother dearest. As far as friends went, he considered them a luxury. Aside from his mom refusing to let him out of her sight, not many kids wanted to be friends with the sad, stuttering cat.
But that was fine. He had his mother. He lived to make her happy; everything he did, he did for her. The words he said, the things he did, everything was plagued by what she might think. Would Mama want me to? If the answer happened to be no (and most of the time, it was) then he wouldn't do it. No siree, he couldn't have an unhappy Mama.
However there was always the exception. Every childhood was incomplete without a little rebellion.
Billy's exception happened to be a girl. What drew him to her, even he couldn't tell you. It wasn't her 'beatuy'; she looked, no pun intended, like something the cat dragged in. She was quite a bit below him -- even he recognized that. Her personality matched that of her outward appearance: hardly spectacular. Boring. Dull. Bland.
For whatever reason, Billy found himself madly in love with her. He worshipped her like a goddess and would do whatever she wanted to be with her.
But that didn't fly too well with his mother. He knew that, so he did his damnedest to keep their "relationship" a secret. He did so well, in fact, even his crush didn't know about it. Just as everyone overlooked her, she overlooked him. Poetic, really.
One magical day, Billy built up his courage. Every ounce of it, he saved. He hadn't slept for several nights, the influx of thoughts and feelings taking control of his life. Looking back on it, he wasn't really sure if that was even love. He could never really decipher his feelings all that well.
So on that day he found his shaking paws leading him to the bland femme. His heart beat throughout his entire body, the rhythmic sound pulsing from his tail to his ears, drowning out most every other sound. He remembered this part real clear. He sucked in a deep breath before forcing it out. Staring at her, opening his mouth and closing it, he looked for the right words to say before finally speaking.
"H-h-h-honey, I love you. Will you muh-muh-muh-muh--" he couldn't force the word out. He flubbed his proposal. For a moment, the two sat there and the silence took on a physical weight, crushing him. After what seemed like hours, she finally opened her mouth.
And laughed.
And laughed and laughed and laughed. Laughed so much Billy was sure she made the ground shake and the birds flee from their nests. She sat there, cackling like a madwoman, tears streaming from her murky eyes and she began choking as her lungs grew smaller with every guffaw.
Billy didn't wait for her to finish. He ducked his head, vision blurred with tears, and ran. He ran till he felt his legs were going to fall off if he ran any more. He sat there and sobbed, big, ugly tears until he was all dried up. But even that didn't stop him. He wept, his eyes dry and tears not falling, until the sky was pitch black. Oh, poor Billy. Poor, pathetic Billy. Then he dragged his sorry ass home.
That's where the real fun went down.
Without thinking, he grabbed the razor. He sliced the skin running down his wrists. Of course, he'd hurt himself before. Cuts and bruises. But not like this. He didn't stop until he couldn't see. No one wanted him, he remembered thinking. No one could ever love him, a piece of shit like him.
He didn't remember much past that. Just waking up in a strange building. Later, he'd learn this place as the Ward, where he'd spend a good hunk of his life in. He knew he could always leave. They'd told him as soon as he'd been fixed up, he was free to go.
But he didn't.
He stayed in the Ward. He was afraid of what he'd do to himself in the outside world -- afraid he'd try to kill himself again. That wouldn't be too bad, he knew, but his mother. Oh, his poor, poor mother! The look on her face when she saw him! Dear God, how could he ever live with himself knowing she was like that.
Besides, the Ward wasn't all that bad. He made some friends -- there was Harding, the Bull Goose Loony of the place (soon, Billy found his place as the runner-up), Cheswick, Martini, all sorts of interesting creatures. Looking back on it, they were a lot more messed up than he'd thought. Psychotic, boderline, manic depressives. But they were the only friends he'd come to know.
Of course, being in the Ward had its downsides. The Shock Shop where beings with elemental powers zapped the living hell out of you, his relapses, some rather mean patients, things of the like.
But none of them would ever compare to the Big Nurse.
Miss Ratched. From the outside, she appeared to be the spitting image of the perfect nurse. She ruled over the Ward with an iron fist, however managed to stay cool and collected. When she wasn't working, she was helping the less fortunate. Oh, what a sweet little lady.
You'd think she was the best damn creature to ever grace this planet. An angel -- a godsend. You'd think that until you were placed inside of her realm.
She never really did anything bad, per se. She was a manipulator -- she'd ask something simple. Say, Billy, one of the janitors found a shard of glass under your bed. That was it. No accusations, no questions. Just a statement. But the way she said it, the way she looked at you, you couldn't confess fast enough. She'd just purse her little lips into a tight smile and give a crisp nod.
Nurse Ratched. Ah, Nurse Ratched. She'd snuff Billy's nose in his weaknesses, especially during 'therapy', causing everyone else to join in and take jabs at him, adding insult to injury.
And that wasn't all. The best part of it all -- her and his dear, sweet mother were friends. Close friends. So just when he thought he forgot about his mom and he could really, actually go through with it, a sickeningly cheery 'Billy? I spoke to your mother today and she said she's just so glad you're getting the help you need.'
So he lived a great portion of his life inside the Ward, trapped by his responsibilities and the insufferable Nurse Ratched.
Then it looked like his luck was going to change.
A newcomer. A big, scarred ginger tabby who... laughed. At the time, the sound was so foreign to him. The closest he'd heard to the sound in what seemed like his entire life was a snicker muffled by a paw. But he came in, big as you please, and erupted in laughter, as if the Ward was the funniest thing he'd ever seen.
How could one begin to describe Randle Patrick McMurphy? He'd been sent to the Ward to see if he was a psychopath. How he described it -- he fought too hard and fucked too much.
He was a gambler -- and a damn good one at that. He didn't bet on anything he couldn't win, which probably aided in his hardly-ever-losing luck. He went around and introduced himself to every last one of those on the Ward. He shook their hands, and guffawed that loud, booming laugh and echoed his name.
Billy remembered that day real clear. He was sitting there, all alone, trying to roll a cigarette, deep in concentration. Then he heard the doors swing open, followed by that laugh. And before he knew it, Mac was over at his table grabbing his tiny paw in his big one, the pads callused and rough. The little demiboy watched as his paw was engulfed by Mac's, blood rushing to his cheeks as he glanced up to see the newcomer grinning down on him.
And the rest was history.
Well, kind of. Billy experienced feelings he'd never felt before -- not even with that girl. Every word McMurphy said, he hung onto; every thing Mac did, he watched with bright eyes. Everytime he spoke to him, his heart beat like a drum and blush rose to his cheeks.
But it didn't seem like McMurphy had eyes for the demiboy. No, he was more interested in Harding. But that was okay. Just being around the big ginger tom was good enough; breathing his air, being in his presence -- hell, even seeing him made his life worth living. He wasn't even hanging in there for his mother, not really. Now it was for McMurphy.
Then it happened. It was any other day, the Acutes hanging around, all eyes on McMurphy, as they usually were. One way or another, the topic switched to being confined in the Ward. No one had really told McMurphy that most of them were voluntarily there -- Mac had been admitted, you see, and therefore couldn't leave until he was released.
Now, something about that bugged McMurphy. His eyes got wide, jaw falling open. "What?" He'd exclaimed, clearly in shock. His eyes drifted across everyone before finally landing on Billy. "Billy, for Christsakes, you've got to be admitted!" Of course, he was flattered. But the look on his face, the untapped emotion trapped in his brown eyes, that got to Billy.
"You should be outside in the real world, gettin' tail and livin' your life!"
Billy slept on it, night after night, the idea blooming in his mind. McMurphy wanted him out, to go and have the life he was destined to have.
And so it was decided.
Not even a week after that very conversation, Billy Bibbit checked himself out of the Ward. For his Mama, he told everyone. To get even better, so he could see her sooner and be totally adapted to life outside the Combine. Just for her, no one else. He tried convincing himself, too, but no way in hell would he fall for his own tricks. He was doing it for McMurphy.
A few days after his departure, he stumbled upon ColouredClan. He'd made friends, enemies, memories -- done things he wouldn't believe possible. There were a few special people he'd ran into along the way.
His time in ColouredClan passed faster than he could've ever imagined -- making friends, enemies, his capture, his promotion, his suicide attempt, joining the Knights of Eden -- everything went by quicker than he could even blink.
Of course, he wasn't totally happy. He never was. He missed McMurphy -- missed his old friends in the Ward. Cheswick, Martini, Harding... Hell, in a way, he kind of missed the Big Nurse. Well, maybe not, but he could kid himself into believing it. In fact, he missed everyone and everything so much, a few times he thought of going back -- leaving the group and heading home, wherever that was.
But that all changed before he even knew it happened.
It had been a regular summer night. The sweet hum of cicadas filled his ears, the chirruping of crickets, the starry sky. It was all rather pretty, however the beauty did little to influence his decision to remain in ColouredClan -- to remain alive, even.
That reason was Lucidreverie.
The duo had been friends for awhile; they shared their problems and comforted each other when they were down. In fact, Billy had been developing what he thought was a crush on the male (again, he was never very good with separating his romantic and platonic feelings). They had just been talking when Lucid asked the most peculiar of requests.
"Will you sleep with me?" The words buzzed in his head like flies around a picnic. Surely, Billy had thought, this was a joke? Some sick, demented joke? Pouring salt in the wound, right?
But no, the male was completely serious in his offer. And Billy could not contain his excitement. Up until then, he'd never even kissed anyone -- let alone slept with someone.
So they spent the night, Billy giving into love and did what every grown-up man did.
And for the first time in his life, he was happy.
Really, truly happy.
All of his life, there was a catch -- a downside to things. His life didn't seem worth living, not then. He would never amount to anything, his friends all despised him, he couldn't keep his mother happy. He couldn't even kill himself right.
But that night solidified his thoughts. He was worth something. He wasn't some rotting piece of shit who wouldn't do anything with his pathetic life. He finally, finally had a reason to live. He no longer felt the desire to swallow glass, to go rot in a hole. He was happy! For the first goddamn time, he was happy.
But that happiness turned sour almost as quickly as it appeared.
The morning after he and Lucid's little "sleepover", the only barely-awake demiboy found himself by the border, cheeks sore from grinning too much. He needed some fresh air, needed a place where could be alone with his thoughts.
That's when he saw her.
The Russian blue, copper eyes cold and hard like steel. She walked with a purpose, precision embedded in ever calculated step she took. She held herself high, her lips upturned in that same mechanical smile she always wore. How she found him, Billy didn't know. But he did know one thing -- he didn't care. Not even the Big Nurse could put a damper on his mood.
Ratched's metallic gaze swept over him and her face contorted into a scowl, as if she'd been sucking on a lemon. How she knew what he'd been up to the night before, not even he knew. She blinked once, twice, three times before she even dared begin to speak.
"William... Bibbit...! William Bibbit!" Her voice was shrill, like nails on a chalkboard, something Billy had never heard in her tone before. He just grinned at her with that drowsy smile, a yawn parting his lips.
"Miss Ratched." Billy purred, no stutter. After a moment, her face twisted back into that too-perfect little grin, however he could see her jaw clenched in untapped fury. She let out a sigh, shaking her head and releasing a low, click, click, click of her tongue that sounded eerily similar to cogs in a machine grinding together.
"Billy, I'm... so disappointed in you." She said, her voice laced with sadness. Billy just blinked, still smiling as if nothing was wrong. So what? He didn't care what she thought, no way.
"I can explain everything," Billy said, exhaustion clear in his voice. He stretched out a bit, not even noticing he didn't trip over his words.
Finally, her cold gaze rested on Billy, boring into his soul. It was enough to cause a shiver to find its way down his spine.
"What worries me, Billy," Nurse Ratched began, her words slow and careful as she stared him down. "Is how your mother is going to take this."
That woke him up entirely. His orange optics widened in sheer horror, jaw dropping and closing like a fish. Words didn't seem to want to come out, as if there was a bone stuck in his throat. Oh, God, his mother! He hadn't even thought of her! His heart raced and beat so hard he was sure it was going to shoot out of his chest.
"You know how this will make her. The poor lady just gets ill with worry. Why, you might even give her a heart attack...!" The Big Nurse said, clucking her tongue once more with false sympathy.
"Nuh-nuh-nuh--!" Billy sputtered, finding it in himself to try to speak. "Y-Y-You d-don't have to-to-to tell her, N-N-Nurse Ratched." Billy said, his whining voice barely croaking above a whisper.
"I don't?" The steely feline mused. Her expression remained unchanged, still forced into that robot smile. "Your mother and I are old friends, you know that, Billy." She watched the crying Billy shake his head, pleading with her.
"Pl-pl-ple-please don't tell my mother." Billy said, falling to his knees as he began begging her, please, oh god, don't tell his mom. Nurse Ratched almost looked like she was taking pleasure in watching the Bibbit writhe in physical and emotional pain, choking on his own tears.
"I'm sorry, Billy. Consider it already done." And with that, the femme whirred around, walking back off from whence she came, the unspoken promise hanging thick in the air that she'd be back.
But she wouldn't have to come back, because this is where our story ends.
William 'Billy' Bibbit in a pool of his own blood, lifeless. He'd broken a window and used the shard of glass to slit his throat. There he was, dead as a doornail. No note, no anything. Just the dead cat.
So let out your breath. Breathe. Because he has not.