The Final Release
Chance had convinced himself he was getting better. He smiled more, talked more, even went out with the others again. From the outside, he looked like someone who was healing.
But inside?
Inside, he was unraveling.
The weight of Guest’s letter and the vent book still lived in his chest, pressing against his ribs like something sharp and unforgiving.
No matter how much time passed, the words never faded.
They echoed in his head, relentless, a constant reminder of everything he hadn’t seen, everything he hadn’t done.
And the worst part?
He was starting to understand it. The pain. The need to get it out somehow.
At first, it had been easy to push away the thoughts. To tell himself that he’d never go down that road. That Guest wouldn’t want that for him.
But the guilt was suffocating.
And one night, when the silence became too much, when the walls of his room felt too close, too tight, too empty—
He caved.
It wasn’t planned. He didn’t sit down and think about it. It just… happened. His hands shook as he traced the edge of the blade he’d barely remembered grabbing, his breath uneven as he stared at the reflection in it.
For a long time, he just held it.
Then—
A shallow cut. Small. Hardly anything. Just enough to sting. Just enough to make the twisting in his chest ease for a second.
And for that second, the guilt felt quieter.
So he did it again.
And again.
Not deep. Never deep. He told himself it was just to take the edge off, just to have something to focus on besides the screaming in his head. He was in control.
Right?
But the next morning, when he caught sight of the faint lines on his skin, something inside him twisted.
He wasn’t like this. This wasn’t him.
So he covered them. Put on guest's roblox hoodie. Forced a smile. Laughed at stupid jokes. Told himself it was just a bad night.
He was fine.
That’s what he kept saying. What he needed to believe.
Because if he wasn’t fine—if he let himself admit how much it still hurt—
He wasn’t sure he’d be able to stop.
So he kept going.
Day after day, he played the part. He joked, he helped, he acted like things were getting easier.
And no one questioned it.
Because he was Chance. The one who always bounced back. The one who always kept going, no matter what.
And as long as he kept pretending—
Maybe, eventually, it would become the truth.
The cycle didn’t stop.
At first, it had been small. Just enough to take the edge off. Just enough to keep himself from drowning in the weight of it all.
But the guilt never faded. The pain never left. And with every passing day, the hollow ache in his chest grew heavier, the darkness creeping in just a little more.
The smiles got easier to fake. The laughter felt less forced. He went out with the others, cracked jokes, even let himself believe—for brief, fleeting moments—that maybe he really was getting better.
But then he’d come to his cabin
And the silence would be waiting for him.
The memories. The letter. The image of Guest’s name burned into his mind like an old scar.
And the blade would be there, too.
A quiet, familiar comfort.
It didn’t take long for it to escalate. The cuts became deeper. More frequent. He told himself it wasn’t a problem, that he was still in control, that he could stop whenever he wanted.
But deep down, he knew better.
He was slipping.
And then, one night, when the weight became unbearable, when the walls of his mind felt too small, too suffocating—
He almost let go.
It wasn’t dramatic. There was no grand moment, no final goodbye. Just exhaustion. Just the aching, endless thought that maybe—maybe—it would be easier if he didn’t wake up tomorrow.
He didn’t even remember picking up the bottle. The pills rattled softly as he poured too many into his palm, his fingers trembling as he stared down at them.
It would be easy.
A few seconds. A swallow. And then it would all be over.
No more guilt. No more weight pressing down on his chest like a stone. No more pretending.
Just silence.
Just nothing.
His breath hitched. His hand shook. He squeezed his eyes shut, his grip tightening around the pills.
Then—
Guest.
Not the memory of him. Not the letter.
The moment.
The way he had died.
The way he had fought—even at the end.
The way he had loved them all, loved him, so much that he was willing to give up everything for them.
Guest had died so he could live.
Chance’s eyes snapped open, his pulse hammering in his ears.
He couldn’t do this.
Not after everything.
Not after Guest had fought so hard to keep him here.
With a sharp, gasping breath, he threw the pills away from him, his whole body shaking as they scattered across the floor. His chest was heaving, his throat tight, his vision blurred with tears he hadn’t even realized were falling.
He pressed a hand over his mouth, muffling the sob that tore from him.
God.
What had he almost done?
He curled in on himself, knees drawn to his chest, fingers gripping at his sleeves so tightly his knuckles went white. The sobs kept coming, raw and broken, and for the first time in weeks—months—he let himself feel it.
The grief. The guilt. The love.
He didn’t stop it.
Didn’t push it down.
He let it crash over him in waves, let it swallow him whole.
Because maybe—just maybe—that was the only way to survive it.
Not by burying it.
Not by bleeding it out.
But by facing it.
By remembering.
By living.
For Guest.
For himself.
For the chance that maybe, one day, it wouldn’t hurt so much.
Chance had always found comfort in the simple things.
Hanging out with C00lkidd was one of those things—easy, carefree moments where, for just a while, he could forget the chaos in his mind.
Today, they were playing some goofy board game C00lkidd had invented, a jumble of rules that made absolutely no sense, but it was fun.
Or at least Chance told himself it was fun.
Laughter echoed through the kitchen as they went back and forth, trying to outwit each other with ridiculous moves.
C00lkidd was ten, a whirlwind of energy and ideas, and Chance had always admired how easily he could be distracted by the smallest things. For a moment, Chance almost forgot. He almost felt normal.
But then, as C00lkidd leaned over the table to grab a card, his eyes locked on Chance’s arms. The sleeves of his hoodie had rolled up just enough, and for a split second, C00lkidd’s gaze lingered on the faded scars, the thin lines that had become too familiar over the months.
He didn’t know what they were. He didn’t understand. He just saw something strange, something that caught his attention.
?- “Hey, Chance…” C00lkidd said, his voice quiet and unsure. “What are those?”
Chance froze. His breath caught in his throat, and his stomach twisted. He immediately pulled his arms closer to his body, hoping it was just a passing thought for C00lkidd. But the younger boy was persistent, leaning in a little closer, eyes wide with curiosity.
?- “What’s wrong with your arms?” C00lkidd asked, louder now, not quite understanding the significance of his question.
Chance’s heart raced. The room felt suddenly too small, the air thick and suffocating. He glanced up at C00lkidd, the child’s innocent face full of confusion, and felt the weight of it all crashing in on him.
Before Chance could react, C00lkidd turned toward the doorway, his voice louder as he called out,
?- “Dad, what happened to Chance?”
007N7 appeared in the doorway almost immediately, his sharp eyes scanning the room. He turned his attention to C00lkidd and then to Chance, who had shifted uncomfortably, trying to avoid the scrutiny.
?- “Dad,” C00lkidd continued, his tone now tinged with concern, “what are those on Chance’s arms?”
007N7’s expression shifted as he took a step closer, his gaze lingering on Chance's arms. It was the kind of look that Chance had feared—a quiet, but unmistakable sense of concern.
007N7 glanced at C00lkidd before taking a deep breath.
- "Why don’t you go play with shedletky and Builderman for a bit, kid?" he said in a calm, but firm tone.. He knew C00lkidd loved to play with Guest.. But we'll.. Guest was gone..
C00lkidd hesitated, his eyes flicking between the two of them, but finally, he nodded and scampered out of the room, leaving Chance alone with his father.
- “Chance,” 007N7 began, his voice calm but laced with worry, “what happened?”
Chance’s heart hammered in his chest. He didn’t know what to say, how to explain, how to make this make sense.
His mind raced with a thousand thoughts—none of them helpful, none of them coherent.
The last thing he wanted to do was talk about it.
The last thing he wanted was to let someone see the truth.
- “It’s nothing,” Chance muttered quickly, forcing a smile, trying to shove the panic down. “Just a mistake. I’m fine.”
007N7’s eyes softened, but they were still filled with concern. He didn’t buy it.
- “Chance,” he said quietly, “you know you can talk to me, right? About anything. If something’s going on—if you're struggling with something—it's okay. But you can’t hide this. You’re not alone in it.”
Chance swallowed hard, looking down at the table, at the game they hadn’t finished. How could he explain? How could he say what he was feeling when he didn’t even understand it himself? How could he admit that he was slowly losing control of everything?
- “I’m fine,” he repeated, though this time, it sounded even less convincing than before.
007N7 stayed silent for a moment, watching him closely. Then he sighed, his voice gentle but filled with understanding.
- “You don’t have to pretend for me, Chance. It’s okay to not be okay.”
Chance felt a lump form in his throat. He wanted to tell him. He wanted to say it out loud—to admit it all. But the words stuck in his mouth, like something too big to say, too terrifying to admit.
- “I don’t… I don’t know how to stop,” Chance finally muttered, his voice barely audible.
007N7 stepped forward, his expression softening even more.