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It's been a few weeks since Ranboo moved in with the anarchists and, to be honest, he still sometimes wondered if it was a dream. If he would one day wake up to find himself in the middle of a crater he used to call home, ash and mud staining his clothes, water burning his skin like acid.
After all, he couldn't really figure out why they would offer him a place to stay. He hadn't been exactly friendly with them before this, hell, he even helped out with Techno's execution. He still felt his chest clench in remorse whenever he thought of that day, even though both of his now-landlords said it was fine.
That's what he called them. Landlords. Because no matter how hard they tried to convince him otherwise, he knew that the chunk of land underneath his feet wasn't his. He did nothing to deserve it, and so he spent all the time he could looking for opportunities to pay it back to the older hybrids.
Of course, this would not go unnoticed for long and even after all the attempts to get him to let it be he didn't let himself be persuaded. He couldn't, for he would feel that painful pang of regret every time he'd look at them, and he'd rather save himself as much misery as he could.
They couldn't stop him from feeding the dogs early in the morning when Techno decided to sleep in. They couldn't stop him when he spent the whole day looking for a feather in the harsh winds of the tundra just so Phil could keep his wings intact. They couldn't stop him from making countless expeditions to mansions in woods far away from their homes, slaughtering every single inhabitant just to bring techno a dozen or more totems of undying to repay the one he lost (partially) by the kid's own hands. And they couldn't convince him to build a better house in the place of the shack that barely provided protection from the wind and rare snow. Ranboo couldn't brig himself to do it. He couldn't take up more space than he already was. And he couldn't help thinking that he didn't deserve better. After all, he tried to kill a person and then leeched off of their kindness. He's using his age and mental problems to get in favour of his two n̶e̶w̶ ̶f̶r̶i̶e̶n̶d̶s̶ former enemies.
That's what it was, wasn't it? That's what he believed, at least.
So no matter how many times they invited him for lunch, how many times they offered to fix his little shack, how many times they asked to see his wrists, he would always refuse, for he believed he didn't deserve their help. To have a roof over his head, food on his plate and an area he could walk around without worrying about being stabbed in the back was all he needed, and way more than he deserved, in his honest opinion.
Of course, he had had all of those things in L'manberg, but he didn't like thinking about that, in fear of seeming ungrateful to the two anarchists. Well, as if anyone could be very grateful in a situation like that. To have the people who destroyed your old home offer you a new one, what an irony. Nevertheless, Ranboo wasn't going to complain, not when he knew it could be much worse. He really didn't know how he got this lucky.
That's why it felt so much worse when he messed up.
When he accidentally knocked over a couple of strength potions, making the bottles break and the liquid soak into the carpet, he tried to ignore Phil's exasperated sigh. When he tripped over some gravel and alerted the polar bear Techno was attempting to stalk, he looked away from the older's discontented stare. When he accidentally slammed his tail in the door of the cabin, he could feel his skin burn under the patronizing gazes of the other two. When he got the nether portal destroyed in an unfortunate encounter with a ghast, he had half a mind to run away and never show his face around the two hybrids again.
And yet, for some incomprehensible reason, he stayed.
He stayed though all these embarrassingly frequent accidents, through all the wind and snow burning his already scarred skin, through all the annoyed and disappointed glances he got from the only people he talked to anymore, the glances that made him wish he had left a long time ago. A time when it had been easier. When he wasn't yet attached to the people he knowingly hurt. When his heart didn't ache and his breath didn't falter at how incredibly selfish he was for sticking around. At how much of a burden he was being. At how much of a coward he was for refusing to leave, to own up to his mistakes, to admit that this was all his fault.
All his fault.
All his fault.
The phrase his brain kept repeating and the cruel, cold wind howling outside was all he could hear now, crouched in the far corner of his barely standing shack. He slowly took in his surrounding, still disoriented from the sudden onslaught of thoughs now plaguing his mind like a thick, dark fog.
Through the cracks between the wooden boards of his pathetic excuse of a cottage he could see the desert of frost outside, wind blowing the snow up from the ground, over the small white mounds of earth and out of view. The sky was covered with dark, thick clouds, making the small, already dim wooden box Ranboo called his house seem darker and, strangely, bigger. It made the hybrid feel uncomfortable, like he wasn't welcome at the one place he was supposed to call home.
He could feel the cold wisps of wind slither through the narrow gaps in his walls and wrap around his arms, neck and torso, making him shiver, though he refused to admit that he was cold. The hearth in the middle of the shack, dangerous yet comforting most of the time, was now only a pile of charcoal and ash, only a memory of a warm flame remained, though it was enough for this moment.
Ranboo couldn't imagine himself staying here for much longer anyway. He had made up his mind long ago, after all. Maybe even earlier than he realized.
He had always known he wasn't wanted. Be it for the way his friends in L'manberg believed him to be a traitor at the word of a tyrant, or for his two neighbors' ceased attempts at trying to get him to take better care of himself after a few fruitless tries. He couldn't blame any of them, he knew he wasn't worth the effort. And he was done torturing himself over the fact that he couldn't do anything to change his situation.
So, now resigned to the consequences of his poor life decisions, he reached deep into one of his chests and took out a simple dagger, the first dagger he had ever owned, the dagger he used to carve 'DO NOT READ' into the cover of his memory book, the dagger he had one day forgotten at the cabin only to find it later in Techno's hand as he was gouging out an enderpearl right out of an enderman's chest, as if it was a treasure chest instead of a living, breathing being. Ranboo briefly wondered if Techno would do the same to him if he screamed loud enough.
He shook the thought away. It didn't matter anymore. He wouldn't be here to find out, after all.
He put the blade softly against the inside of his wrist, against the old, pale lines of past wounds far more shallow than the ones he was going to make now. He felt the cold iron radiate against the pale, white skin of his left hand, saw the glimmer of the metal in the dark of the room. Tears gathered at the corners of his eyes, blurring his vision and slowly, painfully carving out their way down his cheeks. He made no move to stop them.
It was silent now, no thoughts, no emotions, only the constant whistle of the wind outside and the rapid heartbeat in his chest betrayed the passing of time.
Ranboo held his breath for one last time,
and cut.