Content Warning:
This chapter contains references to mental health struggles, dissociation, prescription drug misuse, and suicidal ideation. Reader discretion is advised.
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Smack!
The sharp sound of skin meeting skin cracked through the air like thunder in the quiet hallway outside Apartment 7B.
Joanne's hand hung midair, trembling slightly as the sting bloomed across her palm. Her chest rose and fell in uneven bursts. Her fair skin flushed beneath the streaks of ruined mascara, and those green eyes—glassy with heartbreak—locked on the man before her.
Nathan Beck didn't move. The red print from her slap burned angrily on his cheek, yet he didn't flinch, didn't react.
His eyes were bottomless. Not in a mysterious kind of way. In the kind that made you wonder if there was anything left in there at all.
Joanne choked on the thickness building in her throat. "How dare you? You—you—" The words caught and crumbled.
A single tear found its way down her cheek, followed swiftly by a flood.
He said nothing. He just stood there, face unreadable, soul unreachable.
"I tried, Nathan," she whispered, voice cracking as she took a half step forward. "I tried to love you… to be there for you. Even now… even till the very end, you still look at me like—like I'm nothing. Like I don't even exist."
Her hands curled into fists at her sides as she took in his silence.
Every inch of her was trembling, not just from sadness but from frustration that roared louder with every beat of her heart.
"What did I ever do to deserve this?" she sobbed. "I'm your girlfriend. Is it really so hard to give something back? Just a little? Something real?"
Nathan blinked once. Slowly. Like a machine processing the words but rejecting their meaning entirely.
"It's over, Joanne," he said, his voice low and detached. "I meant what I said. We're done."
There it was. Cold. Final. Not a shred of hesitation. Not even a flicker of remorse.
Joanne stared at him, speechless. Her lip quivered as she took in the hollow man in front of her—same one she met two years ago, just a little more frayed, just a little less human.
Finally, she wiped at her face, black streaks painting her fingertips. Her lips twisted into a bitter smile, a smile that didn't reach her eyes.
"I don't know what I ever saw in an unfeeling bastard like you," she said quietly. Then louder: "You are twisted, Nathan. Hope you know that."
He still said nothing. His silence was a wall taller than anything she had ever tried to climb.
"I hope you get every last ounce of karma coming for you," she spat. "You wanna break up? Fine. But don't come crawling back when you realize that no one—and I mean no one—is going to accept you the way I did."
She jabbed a manicured finger into his chest with the weight of a final wound. "You'll never find anyone like me, Nathan. Mark my fucking words."
She wrenched her purse out of his hand, spun on her heel, and stormed away.
Her heels clicked furiously against the hallway tiles, echoing like war drums until, finally, she turned the corner and vanished from sight.
Nathan remained still.
He stared at the empty hallway in front of him, but it was clear his mind wasn't there. It wasn't anywhere.
His cheek stung with the weight of her palm, but not even pain felt real anymore.
After a long, dragging breath, he turned away and reentered the apartment.
The door clicked shut behind him.
Inside, the dimness swallowed him like a waiting mouth.
The apartment was cold in every possible way. Not just the temperature that bit at the skin or the stale air that clung to the walls.
It was the emptiness.
The emotional vacuum that turned a space into something less than home.
Gray. That was the only word that truly described it. Gray walls, stained in some places with peeling paint.
A couch that sagged from the weight of old pain, springs poking through torn fabric like broken bones. Dirty laundry in the corner. A cracked mirror hung above a small dresser missing one of its handles. Dust coated the television like a fine veil of time.
The fridge buzzed faintly in the background, its struggling hum the only sign of life. Inside it, just a lone bottle of water and a forgotten cup of noodles.
The sour aroma of takeout grease, cigarette smoke, and something slightly moldy lingered in the air, impossible to scrub out.
Nathan kicked off his boots without care and padded further inside, each step heavy, like the weight of the world was hitching a ride on his shoulders.
The silence pressed in.
He dropped onto the couch, his head sinking into a torn pillow that smelled faintly of detergent and old sweat.
His body slumped there, unmoving. His eyes stared forward, watching nothing. Seeing nothing.
Joanne's voice echoed somewhere in the background of his mind.
'Unfeeling bastard… twisted person… you'll never find anyone like me…'
He supposed she was right. People like her were rare. People who tried to reach people like him. Who kept loving long after they should've given up.
But that was the thing. Nathan didn't want to be reached. Didn't know how to be loved. His heart wasn't broken. It was missing. Hollowed out by too many goodbyes he never asked for.
His mother… His father… His older sister…
Their names hung like tombstones in his mind. He could still picture Lily's laugh echoing through the hall, her voice calling him to dinner.
He could still see their father's slippers by the door… untouched since he disappeared.
And his mother… her hospital bed in the living room, where life had quietly ebbed away one breath at a time.
Every corner of the apartment was a graveyard of someone he once loved.
A sudden weight settled on his shoulders. Guilt. Rage. Emptiness.
He slouched until his head tilted back against the torn cushion, eyes fixed on the ceiling.
The crack in the paint there looked like a spider's web and he felt like the insect caught in the middle.
His thoughts swam—slow, dark currents pulling him further into himself.
'Joanne thinks I'm twisted. But isn't this world worse?'
Where were the good guys she believed in? Where were they when his sister's killer walked free? When his father vanished into thin air? When he cried for help in a world too deaf to hear?
They wore shiny badges. Pinned medals. Gave grand speeches about protecting the people.
But when it came to people like him—quiet, broken, ordinary nobodies—they turned their backs and walked away. Always.
Nathan blinked. One tear slipped down the side of his face, disappearing into his hair. He didn't wipe it away.
There was no real rage in him now. No real sorrow either.
Only a numbness that had burrowed in too deep to dislodge. He had once felt things. Love. Loss. Fury. But now they were just shadows moving across a wall he didn't turn to face anymore.
The world had taken everyone from him. It had chewed through the people he loved the most and spat out their memories like rotten fruit. And it left him here. Alive. Breathing. But not really living.
Something creaked in the building above. Pipes maybe. Or footsteps. Nathan didn't care.
He let his head loll back. The ceiling stared blankly down at him. Cracks splintered across its surface like veins.
Just as Nathan shifted to rise from the couch, something soft brushed against his ankle. He froze, then looked down.
Two curious golden eyes blinked up at him, wide and round like polished coins. A delicate "mreooow?" followed, soft and imploring.
"Lucy," he murmured, blinking down at her.
She circled his foot once, tail brushing his shin before she looked up at him again. He reached down slowly, fingers brushing over the top of her little head. Her fur was warm. Silky. Real.
As he scratched behind her ears, Lucy arched into the motion with a soft purr, eyes fluttering closed in pleasure.
"It's just us now, girl," he said quietly, the weight of those words sinking into the space between them. "Joanne won't be coming back."
Lucy tilted her head, clearly not understanding. But her tiny pink tongue darted out to lick the side of his hand.
That simple gesture almost unspooled something inside him.
She didn't know. Couldn't possibly know.
But she stayed.
Nathan gave her another gentle scratch, trying to let the sensation ground him. She had always been his anchor when he felt like he was floating away.
When the room stopped feeling real. When the mirror didn't reflect anyone he knew. When even his own voice sounded foreign. Lucy always brought him back to something close to now.
He lingered there longer than he meant to. Then finally rose to his feet, each step toward the bathroom heavier than the last.
The light above the mirror flickered weakly as he stepped in. He leaned against the sink, gripping both sides like it might hold him together.
His reflection stared back at him, hollow and gray beneath the buzzing light.
Sickly pale skin. Messy blond hair that looked like it hadn't touched a brush in days. His eyes were red-rimmed and glassy, lids drooping slightly as if holding them open was a chore. Purple bags beneath his eyes weighed them down further, thick like bruises. The stubble on his jaw was uneven. Patchy. The kind that didn't grow with style, just indifference.
He tilted his face side to side, detached from the image before him.
Was this really him?
That man looked more dead than he felt.
He leaned in closer, watching the flicker in his pupils as the light above buzzed again. His lips parted slightly, as if he expected that ghost in the mirror to say something.
But there was nothing.
'How did Joanne stay as long as she did?' he wondered. 'She did herself a favor. She just doesn't realize it yet.'
He opened the mirrored cabinet behind the sink. A dozen pill bottles lined the shelves, but he reached for the familiar one without thinking—Seritrexyl, stamped in pale blue across a peeling label.
His antidepressant.
Prescribed for persistent depressive disorder and severe mood deregulation. 1 tablet to be taken orally, three times daily, with meals.
Nathan whispered the directions like a ritual chant.
Morning? Taken. Afternoon? Taken. Night? He shook the bottle gently.
Still plenty left.
Instead of one, he tapped five pills into his hand. He stared at them for a moment. Small. Harmless-looking. Pale pink like candy.
Then he tossed them into his mouth and leaned forward, drinking straight from the faucet to wash them down. The water was cold, metallic-tasting, and it made his throat tighten.
He coughed once and wiped his mouth.
It was nothing. Just a few extra pills. What's the worst that could happen?
He was so tired of feeling empty. If this could mute everything, even just for a night, then it was worth it.
He backed away from the sink and stumbled slightly. The room tilted for a second before righting itself. Nathan steadied himself against the wall and made his way over to the tub.
He turned the tap to cold. All the way.
The pipes groaned before the water burst out—freezing, sharp, like needles tapping metal.
Nathan didn't wait.
He stepped in, fully clothed. The denim of his jeans soaked immediately, clinging to his legs like a second skin.
His hoodie darkened with water, heavy against his frame as it absorbed more than it could hold.
The shock hit him like a punch.
He gasped, air slicing his lungs as the cold crawled across his skin, wrapping around his spine and biting through his bones.
His fingers twitched. His toes curled. But he didn't move.
He just sank.
Slowly.
The water rose past his waist, then to his chest, until only his shoulders and head remained above it. His breaths came faster, the cold stealing them as quickly as he could pull them in.
And yet… he felt something.
Something that wasn't apathy. Wasn't numbness.
Relief?
Maybe.
Or just the overwhelming sensation of feeling anything again. His skin, his nerves, his pulse thudding against the side of his neck.
It was overwhelming in a quiet, almost beautiful way.
His eyes began to flutter.
Heavy.
So heavy.
Was it the pills? The water? Did it even matter?
A soft cry interrupted the stillness. Nathan barely lifted his head.
Lucy sat on the edge of the tub, mewling loud and sharp. Her tiny paws tapped against the porcelain as if trying to climb in after him.
"Hey…" Nathan slurred, voice thick. "What are you doing?"
He lifted her with trembling arms, setting her gently against his chest. She meowed louder, claws lightly batting at his face.
He gave a weak chuckle—the first in days. It came out cracked and hoarse.
"I'm fine," he murmured, pressing a kiss to her nose. "It's alright. I'll be out soon, girl. Just… need to shut my eyes. For a bit. That's all."
He placed her back on the edge, giving her head a final rub.
His limbs spasmed again. Gentle, rhythmic tremors.
His breathing slowed.
So did the pounding in his head.
Then his body slid just a little lower, the back of his head touching the surface.
The water kept rising.
He hadn't turned off the tap.
His ears submerged. Then his chin. Then the quiet hush of water filled everything. He could still hear Lucy's cries, but they were distant now. Warped, like echoes inside a seashell.
His arms floated beside him. His legs stopped twitching. No more cold. No more weight. No more anything.
Darkness cradled him gently, until even the last sound faded.
And soon… Nathan Beck finally felt… nothing.