Maya x Carina x Reader oneshot

Hard choices , hard life

TW: depression, suicide attempt, obsessive compulsive disorder, pills

At the very sweet age of fourteen, you were diagnosed with depression, right after Diane, your psychologist at the time, diagnosed you with what you still call your cruel companion, a little disorder that was actually slowly killing you from the inside out until just a few minutes ago. In fact, you have nothing to lose now. In fact, a few Tolep, Zoloft, and Xanax will knock you out in a few moments - very few - if only you have the courage to throw them in your stomach right now.
Even though you have nothing left to lose, there are two people you could never hurt, and the mere thought of hurting them makes you sick. Maya and Carina, damn them, have gotten inside you and torn down your walls like no one else ever could. And now, in the utter desperation that drives you to the "extreme act," you should feel guilty, and yet you don't. Maybe it's the pills, or maybe it's the sense of freedom you're feeling that's clouding all your other thoughts and feelings.
Carina was the first to notice your OCD, only a month into your relationship. Although you never tried to hide it from either of your girls, there were rituals that they never had a chance to see, such as touching the faucet knob three times before you could open it, checking three times to make sure that all the car doors were closed, or putting on your seat belt three times before you were sure that you had finally buckled it properly and that this would not result in a potential and very likely fatal accident involving your two girls. In short, Carina had discovered all of this by carefully observing your habits, and after discussing it with Maya, the two of them had confronted you. That evening was anything but pleasant.

As for the depression, they noticed it over time, with the bad days and the dull eyes that worried them so much that they practically forced you to go to weekly sessions with your child psychologist, Diane, who of course immediately put you back on medication on the advice of a psychiatrist Carina knew. In the early days, whenever you were down, it was hard for me to leave you alone, and even though they tried to hide it, you always noticed. Always. It was only after a year and a few months that her fear began to subside. When you think about it, you almost laugh; right now, that fear of a possible impulsive and fatal act on your part would probably be your salvation. Not that you would want that, of course. Or maybe...no, you don't want to be saved. You have hit rock bottom; the decision is already made and the plan is already in place.

Most likely, Carina will be the one to find you, right? She is the first to return to your apartment after work, to the small but comfortable apartment you have been calling home for more than four years—to that little place of paradise where all problems disappear, or at least, they seem to. But, as it turns out, they never completely disappear; otherwise, you would not be in this situation.                                                                       
You close your eyes and lean your head against the bathroom wall; the cold marble tiles send a chill up your spine as you stare at what you clutch in your right hand—a handful of pills that you have been preparing for months now. Many people say suicide is an impulsive act, but for a person with OCD? Nothing is impulsive, not even suicide. Everything is meticulously calculated and planned. You have been planning this day for months—at least three, if I am not mistaken. Of course, it's always three. After all, multiples of three are your favorites, aren't they?

Throughout your life, you have had to make hard choices, but this is by far the most selfish. You are aware of it; you know that Maya and Carina will suffer as they never have; you know it because if either of them died in any way, especially in this way, you would never, ever be able to go on living with such emptiness inside.
A trembling breath escapes your lips; you cannot back out, not now, not when you are so close to the goal. You owe it to yourself, you owe it to them and the burden you are to the world. It sounds self-centered on your part but you don't give a shit anymore. You're tired of thinking about others, how they're going to feel, what you have to say to keep them from feeling bad...you're tired, of everything. You thought you could live for them but you were wrong. But maybe, if you really have to be honest with yourself you probably never wanted to go all the way. After all, a person who does not want to be saved is very difficult to help. When therapy doesn't work, you change, but you didn't say anything; you kept smiling again and again until, today, in the last three months, you let the rock you had tied to your ankle drag you to the bottom. It is no one's fault but your own. You're more than aware of it but it's so hard to keep going, it's so fucking hard that you get sick to your stomach just thinking that, in case you don't take these damn pills tonight, you'll be forced to face the world out there once again. No, you can't do it, you can't. Yet, Carina's look at Andrew's death and the Italian's despair and Maya's heartbroken look and her self-destruction after Dean's death...No! You can't think and you don't have to think about them, about the pain you will cause them and from which they can never move on. You can already see Maya, her head in her hands, sitting on the couch on which so many nights you have spent together, blaming herself for not seeing the signs, for not noticing your clouds; you can already see Carina's tears and hear her screams muffled by the sound of the siren of the truck of the 19's Station.
A small and elusive tear slips down your cheek, sliding down your chin before falling on the letter you hold in your left hand. The usual "it's not your fault, you have to move on, I love you" letter You're such a hypocrite; you're fucking disgusting. If only you could swallow those pills without thinking about the two of them.
The sound of your phone ringing echoes through the bathroom, startling you so much that the pills you were holding tightly in your hand scatter on the floor.
You pick up the pills, letting your phone ring. Again and again, until, finally, it stops and goes to voicemail.