 Today I'm going to be reading a tale I wrote for the SCP Wiki somewhat recently, I think it's just a couple of days ago. This tale's content, however, includes discussions of self-harm. That's a content warning. If you or anyone you know is experiencing thoughts of self-harm, call the suicide prevention hotline, even if you just think you need someone to talk to. It's completely anonymous, confidential, you don't have to worry about anyone finding out. Sometimes you just need someone to talk to about things. So I'm going to go ahead and get started now. The wind was the weird part. He'd fallen before, but never from this high, and the wind was strong up here, but he felt at peace anyway. But that moment ended as quickly as it had begun, and then everything cut to black. A slight hum from the radiators along the walls began abruptly. The bright glare of the overhead light illuminated the table between the two men at the center of an otherwise dark room. The air was stale with a soft, acrid scent. One of the two, Mr. Leland, wore a tweed suit with a checkered bow tie. Mr. Leland carefully placed his notebook and pen on the table in front of him, taking an additional moment to straighten them before opening the notebook. He looked over his glasses at the man across the table and picked up the pen. The other man wore a fairly ostentatious piece of silver and ruby jewelry around his neck, and he looked like he was maybe 40 or 50 years old, also slightly overweight. Dr. Bright closed his eyes and was suddenly somewhere else. The top of the building was comforting and cool. And then he opened his eyes. There was no longer any wind, no comfort. Just a disapproving stare from the man across the table. Mr. Leland raised his pen and pointed at it bright. We've needed to have a conversation for a long time, Bright. Dr. Bright curled his lip into a half-smile and nodded. Okay, he said. Mr. Leland wrote something quickly into his notepad. So let's talk about your first attempt. The problem, of course, was time. He'd been able to keep himself busy after the accident, keep his mind on other things, forget his problems, but here he was, alone in his apartment with a power-out. The world feeling like it was closing in on him, claustrophobia, that was only made worse by the fact that he was alone with his own thoughts. He was technically on vacation right now. He kind of imagined if he'd been able to get to work, maybe things would have gone differently. Maybe he'd be distracted just long enough to avoid what he felt was inevitable. Which, by the way, what was about to happen next was patently ridiculous. Because no one ever tells you about the logistics of trying it with a shotgun. A pistol is a simpler proposition. Some pump-action shotguns are pretty easy to manage, too, but this was a long, single-barreled 12-gauge. And Bright couldn't quite get his head around the incongruity between how simple he thought it'd be to how complex it really was. And there were a lot of thoughts going through his head. The sound would be unmistakable, so someone would probably find him pretty quickly, right? The mess he'd make on the wall behind him would be considerable. He'd probably do it in the bathtub instead. But wouldn't that just destroy a wall, or maybe the tub itself, and then cause leaks, which would just be the same problem? Maybe no one would find him until the vacation was over, when someone at work would be like, Hey, have you ever seen Bright today? And no one would really think anything of it until a few more days passed, and he didn't pick up the phone. And then they'd send someone, and then they'd find him, and then... But, you know, he's probably overthinking it. His arms weren't quite long enough to reach the trigger, no matter how far he shoved the barrel down his throat. So he unloaded the shotgun, and he took off his shoes. He cocked it, placed the barrel in his mouth, and tried to pull the trigger with his toe. Click. It would work. But how is he going to look afterwards, in this weird, contorted... I guess it doesn't matter. Afterwards, everything cut to black. Is it fair to call them attempts? Dr. Bright asked with a little bit of mischief in his eye. Mr. Leland rolled his eyes. How would you describe them? He asked. Well, Bright said. The body dies, but I don't, so I don't know. Well, as much as I enjoy a good deflection, let's stay on topic, because that wasn't the first time. Dr. Bright nodded, and then put his head down on the table. Fine. The first time, then. Dr. Bright wasn't sobbing. The gin bottle in front of him was half empty, and the pill bottle was full. He picked the smaller bottle up in his hand, and he flipped it over, and it was tiny in his new hands, but still familiar somehow. There was a comfort in seeing his name there on the prescription, even if his body didn't really need them anymore. He was younger now. His knee was uninjured. His life, though, was over. He'd seen his own body. The funeral they'd held this morning was small and simple. A few of his friends were there. A few of his friends weren't there. Suzanne was there. She was sobbing. She didn't pace herself. He fought the urge to comfort her at the time. He fought the urge to raise himself up from his low place and find her right now. He had to let his wife go, because that was kinder, but no. She might even manage to move on in a few months. Maybe start dating again, and then he truly had the last vestiges of his life stripped away. Truly lose himself. He took another swig from the bottle. He cracked open the smaller bottle and poured the pills down his throat. And then he drank some more gin to wash them down. The pills stuck to the inside of his mouth, gagging him on the way down. He forced himself through it and kept the gin handy in case anything tried to come back up. He scrolled through the pictures on his phone and he finally just let himself go. He sobbed when he got to the wedding pictures. He got sick to his stomach when he got to the honeymoon. And he was staring at a picture of her when everything just kind of faded. I know what your problem is, Bright. Leland said as he turned a page at his notebook, I shrugged. I never get what I want. No, you think that necklace is the only thing tethering you to the world. If you're here to feed me some bullshit about the power of friendship, then fuck off, Leland cut in. What do you think happens to the folk you work with? Bright blinked. What? It's not about you. You get it into your head that you're the only person that cares. But you touch a dozen lives a day. What do you think they think? I don't know. You don't know. Leland laughed. Fine. Then let's talk about the first time then. The real first time. Jack Bryant smiled. Three floors up and everything felt so simple. Summer was coming. His high school graduation was just a couple of months away. So it was simple, right? Just take a step forward and fall into nothing. No one left to care. No one left at all. He took a half step, his foot hanging over the edge. And then he just fell forward. The wind was the weird part. He'd fallen before, but never from this high. The wind was strong up here, but somehow he felt at peace anyway. He woke up on the pavement surrounded by the people who cared about him. Paramedics, his mother, his girlfriend, well, how'd Suzanne get here? His left leg felt numbed. He groggily looked down and saw the bone sticking out of the skin. And he passed out again. He woke up to her crying in the corner of his hospital room, sobbing really. She never knew how to pace herself when it came to tears. He looked around and everything that had bothered him before was somehow less heavy. The weight was off his shoulder. The lights in the room were brighter. The world was different somehow, but nothing had actually changed. He just couldn't see it from the top of his house. Thank you very much for watching. If you liked the video, please scroll down, hit the subscribe button, and then hit the notification bell next to that so you're notified when new videos come out. If you would like to let me know what you thought of the tale, you can go to the link in the description below. There will be a link and you can up, down, whatever you want to do with it, or leave a comment. As you can imagine, this tale was written sort of to let me work through a little bit of a thing that I was in my head too much about a thing that happened to somebody I knew. My way of working it out was to write a tale about it. If you'd like to support the channel, you can by heading over to patreon.com forward slash D. Sumerian, pledging it at any level like everybody here on the screen already has. 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