#the urge to kms but the knowledge that you probably wont attempt so you feel like theres no reason in talking abt it to anyone so its awkwa

[b0mblover]

Greed makes me sick. 

By: J

Woo fucking hoo, gotta love projection! (this was 100% self indulgent, idk how well it actually works with jiro but! Oh fucking well! At least im getting smth done ig) 

Cw; Selfharm, Suicide Ideation, Jiro generally being unhealthy, awful writing

Once again; sorry for your eyes, goodluck

Jiro laid in his bed, glancing at the clock on his phone every so often, around 21:34. Mindlessly scrolling through some of his friends' accounts, he never wanted to admit it, but he does in a way enjoy ‘stalking’ his friends, “friends” being mostly of people he's never met or talked to a day in his life, but that's never really mattered to him. 

Usually it's just to catch up on everything, ‘oh they finally got married’ etc. boring stuff, but why the hell not. 

But other times like today, it made him want to throw up. He was happy for them, sure, but there was a disgusting jealousy spreading throughout his chest, traveling down his esophagus, down to his stomach, and setting there. He’s felt it before, the first few times it happened, he thought he literally had to throw up, resulting in him essentially purging to get the feeling out; it didn't ever work. He gave up on trying, it usually went away on its own, just how long would it take was the question. Minutes, hours, days, weeks, months, years. It was all a possibility. The longer he felt it, the worse it became. He’d liked to say that it started off slowly, but it never did. Usually the first thing he jumped to was ‘I'll never be like them, no matter how hard I try, so what's the point in living?’ He wished he could say it was irrational, but it just wasn't. He knew due to one reason or another, he couldn't be like them, no matter how hard he tried, no matter for how long he never gave up. He would always fail. He wished he could also say that he had no desires, that would be a lie too. Seeing people do what you've wanted to do for years of your life, that you never came close to doing, so easily, it hurt. It hurt. It hurt. It. Hurt. and he wished he could say it didn't. He wished something so very mundane didn't hurt. He hated jealousy, he hated greed, perhaps that's why it hurt so much more. Because he was a hypocrite. It's not like he wished that they weren't able to do that, he just wanted to be able to do it too.  

Jealousy, is an odd word. People always assume that if you are jealous- that you wish ill on whoever you’re jealous of. But that couldn't be further from what he felt. Sometimes, it was tiring to constantly work and work for something others have so easily, that you'll never get. Why does life deal such shitty hands to people who care? Or is it the other way? Shitty hands in life make you care? Either way, it still made him sick.  

Somedays, he got off easy, he knew it's not their fault, sometimes motivated by a ‘you'll get there someday, you just have to keep trying’. Days like this though, that wasn't the case. Trying is pointless, not that he just feels like it, but it is. No amount of trying or wishing will ever work. Shitty hand remember? So if he couldn't do what he wanted, what was the point in living? Maybe he was crazy, fucking insane even, no one talks about this sort of thing, there's probably a reason, right?  

He sat up on his mattress, took a look at his phone, then tossed it across the room. He would’ve thrown it, but he didn't see a point in breaking the phone or wall if he was angry. He wasn't even angry either, just like there was a hole in his chest where his heart should be, and that hole was filled with bile.  

He looked down and stared at his hands, disgusting. Failure. He was a failure. He had good grades, sure, but it really didn't mean anything. Grades are just numbers, and numbers that didn't matter to him. If When he gets older, he's probably not going to be sitting on his deathbed thinking about how he got a 100% on a math quiz. But this?  

He stood up and walked over to his ‘desk’, clean for 4 months at the simple request of a friend. It's not like she’d know or find out if he did it. Well, unless he couldn't keep his mouth shut as usual. Even if she did find out, would she care? Would she even remember what was said? Ha. Maybe she’d tell him how pathetic he was, unable to go past a small styro, he is really pathetic, so it’d be fitting.  

Even if she somehow did ‘care’ as much as she said, wouldn't it be tiresome? That was one of the main reasons he stopped in the first place, taking care of people, even if you love them can be tiresome. So she was bound to get tired and bored of it. She’d probably grow to not care, part of him wanted that.  

He admittedly fantasizes thinks about what would've happened if he hadn't stopped, more than he should. 

Maybe she’d grow annoyed of his break/melt downs, maybe she'd make fun of him instead, he couldn't really blame her either way. Part of him wanted her to grow bored of him, but the other selfish part, hated the idea. Even now, he considered reaching out “You don't have to suffer alone, I’m always here, you’ll never annoy me.” but..  

He appreciated it, but it probably wasn't meant for something like this. What was the point? It wasn't like he was gonna kill himself, no matter how badly he wanted to. Sure, it wasn't a necessarily ‘healthy’ coping mechanism, but. It's not like he could do much damage anyways right? This was just like scratching himself when he was pissed off, not healthy, but what could anyone do? It didn't really hurt, so what would be the point in taking it away?  

Without caring enough to think it through, he picked up the blade, and sliced through the mid of his forearm. It stung. More than usual, but who even cares. He spun his chair around, then sat down. He brought the blade to his arm again- he really was pathetic, wasn't he? Slice- even if someone for some reason cared- slice- it's not like they should, he was pathetic and needy- slice- maybe some people in this world are supposed to die? Or suffer at least- slice- but, he didn't really want anyone else to suffer. If he met someone just as himself, would he hate them too? Or would he take pity? Slice- He smiled. His arm felt weak. Hand shaky. No one was coming to save him. No one knew of what he’d done. No matter what, he’s always alone. He deserved it.  

He stared at his arm for a few minutes, the deepest he’s ever cut, after not even 5 minutes, it looks pathetic again. God he's stupid. What if she somehow does find out? She wouldn't outwardly say how pathetic he is, she wasn't that type of person. She’d probably show some sort of concern. Fuck. Fuck Fuck Fuck Fuck Fuck Fuck FUCK. She’ll probably show some sort of care, attention. He didn't want that. Great. Now it looks like he did it all just for attention! Fucking wonderful.  

He glanced at his phone that had been lazily thrown on the floor, part wishing someone messaged, anyone, but dreading having to respond. No matter how much he loved them, responding right after this thing, he always seemed off, too off. 

He took a breath, trying to collect what little of himself was left. He should get something to drink. Yeah, that’ll probably make him feel at least a bit more level-headed.  

But there again, he is a waste of space, failure, etc. he’s heard most of the names by now mostly from himself but that didn't matter, does he really deserve something as simple as drinking? Even basic things do cost money, even if just a few cents. Why waste it on himself? But his throat is so dry still,,  

He walked out of his bedroom, hitting his face on the door, forgetting it was very muchly locked, precaution. He wanted to lash out, take every bit of anger out on it but then…. Nothing. Numbness. He didn't even have a good reason to feel angry. It was his fault anyways. He took a deep breath, unlocked the door, and walked out.  

Walking to the kitchen, slower than usual, he started to wonder again with how he was going to hide his awful wonderful misdeed. Makeup worked.. Well honestly for him it worked awfully. Nothing ever seemed to match in all lighting, plus that was only really an option for scars, tactile cuts didn't really improve much when paired with a powder or creme (?? sorry idk), plus it could run the risk of infection. Right? He's never seen anything warning against it so maybe not? But putting something that has chemicals like that into a cut, it didn't seem correct. Considering what minuscule things could cause infection. Not that he'd mind getting infected and slowly, painfully dying. He just didn't like the look generally.  

What could he do then? Wear a jacket like normal, sure, but she always finds out somehow. Gods know how, not him, but somehow. He could bandage it sure, but that ran the risk of even more questions, it wasn't exactly news that he didn't care about proper ‘aftercare’ like that. Sure, not properly covering it, cleaning the blade etc. could cause infection, but.. Well. He didn't have any excuses, he was just biased in some ungodly way that he never noticed right until that very moment! (Large cough. H e l p.) 

Grabbing a random cup, he decided to just tough it out like usual. Try to not show his arm in any setting but not be weird about it, try to act normaler than usual, sure it’ll suck, but it's between that and in his mind, ‘looking like an attention seeker’. He poured out what wasn't even 1/4th of a cup of water into the cup. His throat was just dry, it's not like he'd die from dehydration any time soon. Sure, he's human, doesn't that mean he just needs the absolute minimal amount of care? Hell, this couldn't even be considered minimal! He has a roof over his head, water, food, there's so much more he could go without, gods he's selfish huh? He sat down his empty glass beside the sink, very quietly laughing under his breath, pathetic, wasn’t it? He’s so selfish, he has it well, yet he acts like he has nothing! What more could he ask for in life? Stability? What a joke. He should really be more grateful. 

He stared at the glass glass beside him, staring into his distorted reflection. Well, at least there was always a way to fix it all. In the back of his mind, he was always running though, listing off methods, quickest, easiest, cheapest, messiest, etc. No matter how hard he tried, he’d never figured out the ‘perfect suicide’ in his own eyes. 

Though, recently, a method stuck his eye. Nitrogen gas. He’d heard it takes one out quickly, but makes them struggle and suffer beforehand. Perfect for himself. No time to back out because of how quickly it takes you, pain before death, he’d never wanted a peaceful one. It was near perfect. But one of the main issues was managing to get any. Or get around any in general. (little did Jiro know; he was only a few letters off from his actual suicide; that being Nitroglycerin!)  

But, he doubted it was realistic, for reasons already stated, so he was stuck with whatever other incredibly fucked method he inevitably decides on. It's not like he probably will anytime soon either, no matter how much he wants to. He walked back to his room, flopping down as soon as he was close enough for at least his face to hit the mattress. Thud totally comfortable.  

He stood up once again, actually closing his door this time. Then sitting on the bed properly, right, shit, his phone. No, no one probably texted, they're all busy. What can only be described as a mantra he mentally spoke, trying his best to not get his hopes up and what left of his heart shattered, even if he was always deep-down hoping, begging for any sort of message.  

He walked around to the far wall, and picked up his phone, quickly turning it around, anticipation and tension always left more room for disappointment. He seen the messaging app icon and- no one. A stupid update reminder. He’d rather’ve seen absolutely nothing than that. But whatever, they're busy, she's busy. He reminded himself, trying to subside the constant idea that they all fucking loath him for everything that he's ever done. But it's probably true though right? Of course it is. They all hate him. No matter how close, they all do. He’ll never change, will he? Why even bother at this point, he loved talking to them all sure, but why do they bother to talk to him? Pity? Perhaps. A disgusting feeling crept back up into his stomach and esophagus, it unknowingly had disappeared some minutes ago. Not like it mattered now. He tossed his phone to the side of his bed, on the ground, not bothering to charge it. It's not like anyone will message anyways. He's an idiot, everytime, everyday, why does he still feel such anticipation anyways? The answer didn't matter. He was tired. He didn't want to sleep, he hadn't gotten anything done, hell he was bored. But he had no energy to do anything. Just because of some stupid post. Sensitive. Weak. Pathetic. Why was he even still here? He's just dead weight to everyone he meets. What is the point. 

He laid there, he didn't know for how long, it didn't matter, he heard a door shut, they're back. He couldn't talk to them or face them like this. No. He’ll fake sleeping, maybe he’ll fall asleep in the process, that'd be nice, or if he never woke up, both seem ideal to him. 

He laid on his stomach, right arm obscuring his face, left in a weak fist. It was a default ‘I swear I'm asleep’ pose, shockingly comfortable too!  

Staring at the back of his eyelids, repeating bright colours and vague shapes started appearing, in a way it always felt a bit soothing, it was always there for him.  

Even when he wasn't there for himself.