It was nearing the anniversary of Tate’s death, a fact he could not bring himself to forget. He laid in bed staring at the ceiling, arms folded under his head, chewing on the inside of his cheek as he thought about the fact that it was nearing how many years now since he’d offed himself? He couldn’t even remember how many years it had been. Was that sad or what? He rubbed at his neck gently, remembering how it had felt to have that rope around his neck, to step up onto the chair, to take that one step off- it only took one step- and then… and then to be dead.
A tear rolled down the side of Tate’s face and into his ear, since he was laying on his back, and he sat up. No. He was not going to be like this. He was not going to lay here and wallow in the fact that he was dead and now stuck at Waverly forever. That just wasn’t going to happen.
He got up and pulled a shirt on, looking in the mirror as he did so. God, he needed a shave, but that would have to wait for a time when he cared. He materialized through the door- too lazy to actually turn the knob- and made his way down the hall. What trouble could he get into today?