"Parents have gone out. You can come over now if you want. Bring the stuff."

Thomas read the text over a few times. His eyes running over the screen while he sat in silent contemplation. He'd waited for this opportunity for a while, hardly believing that it had come to fruition. He closed over his phone and got up off his bed, lifting his mp3 player with him and slipping it into his pocket. Loud and somewhat offensive lyrics played through the earphones, but he wasn't listening. He put his shoes on and navigated across the room, typical for a teenager - most of what he owned lived on the floor. Lifting his bag, he checked the contents. He knew everything was there, but it was worth triple-checking. Setting it down, he pulled a hoodie over him and moved to the mirror, checking how he looked and fixing his hair, he pulled the hood up over him, lifted the bag and left his room.

He kept his head down as he walked through his neighbourhood, hands in pockets and bag over shoulder. If anyone could see his face as he passed, they wouldn't say much. He was fairly inconspicuous, smallish features and sometimes questionable attire. His hood hid his black hair, which he toyed and experimented with occasionally, garnering him odd looks at times. He didn't care. He'd gotten enough shit from school for him to stop giving a damn. The insults and giggles behind his back washed over him now. No-one really 'accepted'� him in their groups or cliques, he eventually stopped caring about that too. He only needed one person to talk to.

This was Tristan . Incidentally, this was the person Thomas was going to see. Initially, they hadn't spoken to each other for several years, despite going to the same school and being in several classes together. They were fully aware of each other, but their crippling shyness had stopped them from ever sharing words. That was until they both, drunkenly, got on well at a house party. Their 'friends' had dragged them both to it, but it was certainly something they didn't regret. Both woke up with monumental hangovers and each others phone numbers in their mobiles. They soon quietly became best friends. Tristan was also on the receiving end of some unpleasant treatment, his uncommon name was much to blame for that, and as well as sharing some traits with Thomas, he was considered to be too 'alternative'� to be accepted by the judgmental masses. This caused him some great deal of pain, but it didn't matter now that he has Thomas as a friend. They would travel to the city together, sup caffeine and sit about plotting how to kill their oppressors jokingly. Many common interests were shared, and they were equally as happy with each other.

A light drizzle perforated the sky, moistening Thomas' as he walked, the earphones snaking from his pocket and under his hoodie, resting in his ears which were covered by his hair and hood. Again, he wasn't listening. The people he passed heard more of his music than he did. He was busy thinking about what was to happen once he got to Tristan's house. They'd both talked about it, somewhat awkwardly at first, but slowly began to open up. It was definitely something they couldn't tell their old friends about, lest they succumb to more victimisation. They felt much more comfortable with one another once they had said their thoughts. It was no wonder they were best friends.

Thomas stood under the awning of Tristan's house and removed his earphones, pressing the doorbell. Soon enough, Tristan answered and ushered him in, smiling. 'Go on up, I'll just be a minute'� he told Thomas, retreating to the kitchen. Thomas ascended two flights of stairs, surfacing inside Tristan's large attic bedroom. A good portion of the walls were covered with a few band posters and Tristan's drawings, most of which were unintelligible to the untrained eye, but if anyone had the faintest idea about abstract art or surrealism, they were easily understood. Originally, Thomas had thought Tristan was a bit mad, but once they were explained to him, he slowly began to adore his work. He had a few in his own room. He set his bag at the foot of Tristan's spacious bed and sat down, pulling his damp hoodie off and placing it on a bottom bedpost. Leaning back slightly, placing his hands behind him on the bed to support himself, he gazed up at the dark rafters. There was two slanted windows in the room, but the blinds were almost always drawn, and only opened slightly to let the bare minimum of light inside. Sitting up, he looked to the pillow and spied a scuffed journal. He already knew what was inside, lifting it, and opening it, he turned the pages, seeing the reams and reams of poetry scrawled down, crude doodles and self-questions. They were always very vague, but anyone who knew Tristan and could half-analyse poetry would know the full meaning of it. Thomas sure did. 'I haven't written anything lately.'� Tristan sighed as he climbed the stairs, spotting Thomas leafing through the book. He went over and sat down beside him, handing him a glass, and pouring strong liquor into it, as well as his own.

'What's this for?'� Thomas asked, looking a bit bemusedly at the glass and smiling.

'Remind you of anything?'� Tristan replied, hiding his face with his glass as he drank. Thomas gazed into the liquid for a few moments, swirling it around.

'When we first met. Or spoke, rather.'� he smiled again and drank the alcohol. Tristan nodded, sipping his drink.

'That was fun.'� Tristan remarked, looking into his empty glass, 'You were completely out of it.'� he laughed slightly while Thomas smiled again, nodding. 'Then again, I wasn't totally sober either'� and as if the last sentence was a message, he refilled his glass, offering to pour more for Thomas. He nodded and Tristan refilled his too, continuing, 'Then we woke up and everyone was all over the house, passed out on the floor, on the beds, on each other.'�

'Yes.'� Thomas almost abruptly said, draining his glass quickly and staring into it again. Tristan looked at him and knocked his back too. They then sat quietly for a while, both silently contemplating. Eventually Tristan broke the silence,

"Well, are we gonna do this or not?". Thomas nodded and reached for the bag, taking out some rope.

---

Tristan stood, looking at Thomas who was totally helpless before him. He ran an eye up and down him, resisting the urge to smile. Thomas looked at Tristan, and gave a nod. With that, Tristan pushed forward hard, seeing the strain suddenly appear on Thomas' face. He began to watch as Thomas struggled, the tension growing, he kept groaning as his face grew redder and redder, and then, suddenly, the rope snapped, and Thomas fell to the floor. Tristan rushed to help the coughing and spluttering Thomas, looking up at the rafter where the rope had been tied, and subsequently, snapped. He took the noose from around Thomas' neck and put it to one side and helped him to his bed. Setting him down to recover, Tristan set the chair he'd kicked out from under Thomas back up, and joined him on the bed. "Well, that was less than successful." he remarked, pouring more alcohol.

"Yeah, you think?" Thomas sarcastically asked, catching his breath and rubbing his neck, taking his glass from Tristan and sipping. They sat silently again, looking at nothing in particular and thinking about nothing in particular. Tristan glanced at Thomas a few times, then eventually broke the silence again,

"Thomas...I have something I want to tell you."

"Oh? What is it?"

"I...wasn't going to do...what you just tried to do if the rope hadn't snapped..."

Thomas felt disappointed, disappointed in more than one way. "That's what it was?"

"Yeah." Tristan said, knocking back the rest of his drink.

"Oh." Thomas paused, "You were just going to let me die? Weren't you-"

"No," Tristan interrupted, "not like that. I don't think I could. I was gonna take some pills instead."

"I see. Well, what are we going to do now?" Thomas asked.

"What do you want to do?"

"I...think we should take those pills. If you've got enough for both of us." Thomas hesitantly answered. "I mean, we aren't going to stop now."

"No. No, we're not." Tristan answered, and got up, walking downstairs.

---

They both lay in the bed, their heads swimming, echoing their first encounter together. Both on their sides, looking at each other, the mix of alcohol, sleeping pills, and a lethal dosage of prescription drugs which were burgled from the medicine cabinet, making their minds hazy and eyes heavy. Soon it'd be over. They wouldn't be tormented any longer, and wouldn't need to worry. They both smiled. It would be the last time they would sleep together.

Want to comment on this Short Stories? Sign up to Edit Red and you will be able to comment on Short Stories and get access to: Upload your own stories and poems, get readers and their feedback, promote your work...