Disclaimer: I wish I wish I owned Danny Phantom! Desiree: -turns me into Butch Hartman- AHHHHHHHHH! CHANGE ME BACK CHANGE ME BACK! -is changed back-

Summary: Danny wants to escape his pain, but he just can't get it through their minds that the answer for him is death.

Rating: T

Inspiration: This is almost exactly what happened to me during my suicide attempt.

Pairings: A VladxDanny fatherson bonding moment

Warnings: Character Death, Depressed Danny

Other Notes: Gah! Fanart! I feel so loved! :)

It's but nitemareluffy on deviantart under Danny Angst/Death is the Answer. Fanfiction won't let me link or even do the space thing.

I gave up on life so long ago.

What reason did I really have to life for? My life was going down the drain.

My grades were horrible. Fighting ghosts took time cut into my school and study time. The low grades caused my parents to ground and become upset with me. They would yell at me constantly because of this, occasionally calling me stupid, a slacker and accusing me of doing drugs or drinking before going into a lecture about it. This lowered my self-confidence and self-esteem greatly, to think that my parents would believe that I would do drugs or drink. Don't they know that I'm smarter than that?

Another side effect of bad grades was the possibility of being held back or not being able to graduate. I knew I was doing bad, but not that bad! It was too late though. I was quickly approaching my Sophmore year, and with the ghost s attacking more and more, I had to sigh and accept the fact that I would only graduate by sheer luck. Not only that, but what college would take a "trouble-making failure with no future"?

There goes my NASA dreams…

Not that, even if I didn't have to spend every waking hour hunting ghosts instead of being able to study and get great grades like I was supposed to, who said I was allowed to go to NASA?

Since Jazz had more potential to do something greater with her life and never showed an interest in ghost hunting, Mom and Dad were insistent on me taking over the family business. I can barely stand hunting ghosts now! Doing it for the rest of my life? Oh god kill me now! I want to go to NASA! Why couldn't my parents accept that I don't want to hunt ghosts for a living?

Sam , Tucker and I were drifting apart. I know it sounds crazy, but they moved on. Of course, they never revealed my secret, but we just…drifted. I was spending too much time hunting the stupid ghosts to hang out much more, so they found their own friends. Sam was often seen hanging around with the other Goth girls and boys while Tucker was hanging around with his fellow nerds.

I became a loner.

In my time as a loner, my interest in books-real books-skyrocketed. Mr. Lancer would be smirking and telling me I-Told-You-So if he knew now how much I was into reading now. I was even reading Shakespeare, Poe and more.

Many teens my age would go and look for the Fairy Tale Ending books. The books that end in happily ever after-the main character jumps into the arms of their lover and they happily kiss before getting married and having a beautiful family together. Those books had many problems , normally minor and simple, and the solution seemed to constantly be the same. Love.

No, I go for the books with the Reality Endings. The problems were drugs and alcohol abuse, rape, murder and depression. I know Shakespeare was attempting to tell us something when he wrote Romeo and Juliet, a true and realistic tragedy. This story has a problem, and the solution could not be love, but can only be death.

I hate it. I hate everything. The smell of roses, the beautiful rainbow after a harsh storm, children's laughter. How can it be possible, that people can enjoy themselves with such simple things? When every day, people die. Every second, including the one I am living right now, someone dies. Shouldn't this world be in a permanent state of bleak mourning? How are they happy? How can they face the world and smile, by lying to themselves, that's how. We all just need to wake up and see the cruel, awful oblivion that is our world.

I hate it. I hate that little boy, his face tear-soaked and red, as he holds onto his mother's hand, afraid to let go. To venture into the unknown. It hate every time that someone feels sad, for simple reasons. They forgot their essay, they forgot that they were supposed to be meeting someone an hour ago, or at worst they've been dumped by their boyfriend of two weeks. I despise the way the sun rises every morning, though the world has stopped. But most of all, I despise myself for being who I am, for never ever being enough.

Either way, the arguments with my parents and my failing grades continued as my depression was beginning to grow. Towards the ending of my Sophomore year, I decided that Amity Park could defend for themselves. Not like they appreciated me anyway. They called me Public Enemy Number One, Inviso-Bill (yes, STILL) and many more things. Freak, monster, killer, evil and the list just goes on and on. Not only that, but I wanted my grades to improve. Maybe then my parents would stop focusing on my bad points and focus some more on my good ones. I was so desperate for a compliment, an I Love You to come from them first instead of it being a reply, a conversation that didn't end in an argument over my grades and how I've changed.

The beginning of my Junior year was when I did it.

My weapon of choice was sleeping pills.

I waited until I heard the loud snores of my dad. I then tip toed downstairs. Knowing my stupid parents, they figured it was a stupid ghost and run around blaming Danny Phantom so I didn't want to shoot myself with an ecto-blast. I wanted it to be obvious suicide. Hunting for the sleeping pills in our medicine bucket, I briefly wondered how long it would take for somebody to find my body. Since Dad injured himself a lot, Mom had a lot of pain relievers in her medicine/first aid bucket. I found the sleeping pills, poured myself a glass of milk and sat at the table. I read the back briefly before trying to mentally calculate how many I needed to take minimum in order for it to work. After thirty minutes of thinking, I poured out half of the mostly full bottle.

I took several at a time really quickly, gulping down my glass of milk. Who cares if I died? Honestly, who really would? Jazz would shed a few tears, be a wreck for about a month then move on with her life. My parents were more concerned about my grades than me.

I closed my eyes and then it started. I began to become dizzy. Putting my hands on my head to stop the throbbing pain wasn't helping. It only got worse. I believe I faded in and out of consciousness too. I wasn't sure, but time seemed to slow down dramatically. My stomach began to churn and bubble. I suddenly jumped up, ignoring the pain in my head long enough to make the three step trip to the sink and puke. I threw up three times before my stomach finally settled down some. I briefly rinsed my mouth before I plopped to the floor. My head was spinning and making me feel so dizzy. I ended up slowly laying down. The single light I turned on so that I could carry out my plan was burning my eyes now, so I put my arm over my eyes to shield them. This was more painful that I thought it would be. If I knew how slow and painful overdosing was, maybe I should have just shot myself with an ecto-blast.

Then there was an amazingly bright light. I winced, my headache increasing dramatically as I heard a scream of panic. It was the last thing I heard as the headache grew to the peak, but thankfully, it helped me fall unconscious.

When I first woke up, I had no idea where I was or what time it was. All I really know is that I woke up to see a machine making small beeping noises and the small table holding cards and my favorite type of flowers with a snow-white background. I slowly looked around, feeling too sick to really move my body much.

Down near my feet was Jazz. She had her head and arms resting on, what I no knew was my hospital bed. She looked frazzled, hair a mess and no make-up. Honestly, she looked kind of disgusting, but I didn't really care. She was here, and after making my body turn onto my back, I noticed that my parents weren't.

I was choked up over this thought. Jazz was at college, so the person who found me obviously had to be Mom or Dad. Were they ashamed that I tried to kill myself? Is that why I couldn't find them?

But then my dad walked through the door holding two cups of coffee. He noticed that I was awake, but just stared.

"You're up," he stated obviously after moments of silence. I just nodded and turned to lay facing away from him.

I heard him put the coffee down on another table on the other side of me and walk out. Probably to get a nurse. I glanced at the cards and flowers again before reaching out and picking up one. I knew right off the bat that it was hand-made, not something somebody picked up on the way over. For some reason that fact alone made me feel better as I stared at the front. It was a picture (not a drawing) of Valerie and I, from the baseball game we went too. Inside it had a (kind of bad) picture of flowers along with a long note about how much I meant to her, how much she'd miss me if I had succeeded and if I wanted to hang out after I was out of the hospital.

The next one was a store-bought 'Get Well' card from Sam, although inside she had seven lined notebook paper (college ruled) with reasons I shouldn't have tried to kill myself. Front and back. Impressive, but I got upset over it. Just because I had plenty of reasons to not kill myself doesn't mean it didn't outweigh the reasons I should kill myself. Sure, I only had a few reasons to kill myself but they were major reasons. It was a touching thought that she took the time to make this list, but she didn't know anything about suicide.

The last was from Tucker. It was also-handmade. Very badly, but it was still touching that he hand-made it. He drew my DP logo and on the inside, said he was sorry that we had drifted apart and felt bad for not being able to be there in my time of need. He also put a bunch of Nasty Burger coupons in there, which was kind of nice.

I put the cards back, stacked on top of each other. I was about to read the little note attached to my flowers when Dad came back in with a nurse. She was pretty nice, taking my vital signs without pestering me with the usual suicide questions: Why did you do it? Did you tell anybody? If you answered no to the that question, they pestered you with Why not? Was it my fault? Could I have stopped it?

Soon the nurse asked if I was hungry. I was, but I shook my head no. She said to call her if I changed my mind before walking out. Jazz was beginning to come out of her sleepy daze. When she noticed I was awake, she began to cry. It immediately made me feel guilty. Jazz didn't just cry at anything. She sobbed as she immediately latched onto me. I wasn't sure what to do, so I just kind of hugged her. She just cried more, asking the regular suicide questions. I didn't answer, just tried to comfort her some. My dad wasn't sure what to do either, just gulping down his coffee before awkwardly leaving to room to get more.

About a half-hour later, Jazz finally stopped crying long enough to pester me with the suicide questions. Now she was angry, her fury growing when I refused to answer her. She finally gave up after an hour of getting upset and simply stood up and left. My dad just watched her. He had more coffee and was drinking more coffee than I had ever seen him drink before. I don't think I've ever seen him drink coffee before to be honest.

"Where's Mom?" I asked. First words I spoke were that.

"She was here earlier, but she went home," he said simply, fiddling with his coffee. I just nodded and looked at the wall. "The doctors say you have to stay here forty-eight hours due to…"

I just nodded again. He couldn't just said it. Attempted suicide. I really, really wished that the word attempted wasn't in front of it.

Neither of us knew what to say, so we kept silent. What else were we supposed to say? He was at a lost of what to do in this situation, and I had nothing polite to say to him. I was angry at him. He prevented me from solving my problems. Love was not the answer in this case, but death was. I was furious that he (or Mom, I'm not sure which saved me) prevented me from death. I welcomed death. I mean, I was already half-dead!

I stayed there the required forty-eight hours. I spoke openly with Sam, Tucker, Valerie, Jazz and even Vlad, unless the conversation of my suicide came up. I refused to talk to my parents. They were part of the reason I tried to kill myself and the entire reason the suicide was an attempted one. I hated them for putting the word attempted in front of my suicide.

Sam and Jazz couldn't help but keep trying to steer the conversation towards my attempted suicide. I just went silent at the conversation, but they still attempted. Tucker tried to cheer me up with funny jokes and stories. It worked, but the happiness and laughter was only a temporary treatment. Valerie and Vlad were the smartest. They at first, tried to talk about my suicide but when I refused to speak about it, they wisely avoided the conversation.

My mom picked me up to take me home. She looked like a wreck, no make-up, her hair not done and looking like she had been doing a lot of crying lately. I held no sympathy towards her. She had put the word attempted in front of my suicide. Let her cry. She, thankfully, didn't speak to me the entire trip until we reached the house. She asked what I wanted for dinner. I was kind of mad that she acted to casual, but it didn't last long.

During dinner, I ate freely. Nobody really spoke. They were finally wise enough to know that I wasn't going to answer their questions. At the end of dinner, Mom told me that I wasn't going to school, but to see a therapist. I wanted to yell back that I didn't need a therapist and to just leave me alone, but I found myself just nodding. She kissed my cheek and told me to sleep well.

So, here I am. At I place I was physically forced into. There is a man sitting across from me. In a dark leather chair, behind a lavish desk with nothing on it. The typical professional scene. He's smiling at me with one eyebrow raised and an awkward, lopsided grin. As if he expects me to say something.

But I have nothing to say. At least, nothing to say aloud, nothing I want this guy to hear. In theory, don't we talk to someone because we want to, because we feel we have something important to say? We shouldn't have to pay someone a hundred dollars an hour, just so they'll talk to us. And worse, we shouldn't burden others enough so they delude themselves into thinking it's necessary to pay outrageous amounts of money, just to speak with this awful being. So I could burden a man in a suit with my half-ghost teenage problems instead of them.

To avoid the man's now pleading and desperate gaze, I stare at the pristine golden nameplate in front of him. It reads Dr. Alexander Ryains, in fancy engraved letters. What really had me staring at the nameplate was what was engraved in much smaller script underneath. Listened physiatrist. Everyone thinks I'm a mental case because of my attempted suicide. Maybe I am, maybe I'm not. Who really knows?

I let my eyes stray for a fraction of a second, big mistake. He's now starring at me, with a frustrated forced smile. I know why, there's only ten minutes left in our first session, and I still haven't acknowledged his presence.

Letting go entirely of his facade, he sighs, exasperated. "Will you at least tell me your name?" I look at him for a moment, and then stare deliberately down at the brown manila folder in his lap. My name, so obviously printed across the front, he was just trying to get me talking. He sighs again, in defeat. "Fine, you win Daniel Fenton." He mumbles something under his breath about not even trying, and that the session was over anyways. Whatever, it was an effort. And besides, I'm not some egg to be cracked easily, or at all.

I wondered if he would make me stay over my appointment time. It ended in ten minutes, and I've been here for fifty minutes. I haven't said a word. I could tell that his patience was wearing thin and his forced kind smile was quickly turning into a desperate and pleading stare. I mentally smirked. What a moron.

Now it's my third session. So far, my parents are wasting their money, but I don't care. During the last session, the only words I told him was "This is stupid" which made him sigh in annoyance and rub his eyes. I'm not making this easy for him. I don't want to be here. I'm not mental. I just want to go home and be able to commit suicide. What value to society did my life hold? It used to be my alter-ego, but I quit hunting ghosts in an desperate attempt to raise my grades-which didn't work by the way. People begged for me to come back, but at this point, I really don't care about anything anymore. Everything lost its meaning to me.

"So, would you like to tell me about your suicide attempt?"

What the heck? I've know this guy for only two weeks, but I've only been around him for two hours of those two weeks. The only other question this idiot asked was my name. What makes him think that he has the right to ask such a personal question? I didn't even answer my family, the family I've known all my life and used to love. Why would I tell him? This guy is way to blunt. That took me off guard. I make the mistake of looking up, stunned by the question. And, of course he's gazing at me with a look of innocent curiosity.

And so, to make up my fumble, instead of dropping my gaze, I turn it into a glare. I muster up my most frightening glare and send it his way. His smile falters.

I had many things I could tell him, but that's what he wants. Well, to be more specific, he wants me to either spill my guts or start crying like a four year old girl. Either that or he wants me to have an angry outburst that he can note word for word in his notebook. But I'm not giving him the satisfaction of either.

There's no way I'm going to let this guy into my head. My vault of secrets, thoughts and most important, of every precious moment of my life before it fell apart. I wasn't about to let him know about any of that, especially my half-ghost life. I didn't want to be shipped away to the Guys in White for a lot of painful experiments.

Why is everybody so freaking interested in my life? It's bad enough my mom has sent me to a physiatrist. There's nothing wrong with me though. Being suicidal is not a mental illness. It's my choice what I want to do with my life, or how I want to dispose of it rather. I mean, what ever happened to the concept of a quote Free Country? Ha. More like free to obey or suffer the consequences.

"Listen kid, you're going to have to tell me something, eventually."

I shake my head, looking a little ridiculous. This guy should just let it drop, give up. I don't know why he bothers. Well he does get paid. It's not like I'm just going to jump up and start ranting about everything that's wrong with my life. Even if I did, there wouldn't be much to say.

I'm never going to tell this idiot anything. He has no right to ask anyways. Besides, there's nothing he can ask he doesn't already know. He knows that my grades have dropped, strained relationships with everybody, and he knows I'm suicidal. Can't he just put two and two together and just leave me alone? I know he wants me to change. But why does he bother, it not like I serve a vital role within society anyways. I'm pretty much just a waste of space, a kind of depressing waste of space.

I guess you could call me depressed, though I've never really seen myself that way. Like one of those commercials for anti-depressants. You know, those ones with people with blank expressions while a three year old cries next to them, or spouses try to hug them. Or the ones with sad people looking off into nothing while they drink coffee very slowly in black and white. That's not me.

"So Daniel, how do you like school?"

I wanted to laugh. The way the other people avoid me, I find it humorous, not that I make a solid effort at being approachable anyways. I sit alone in five out of seven, nobody wanted to sit next to me, and I'm alright with that. I sit next to a quiet, nerdy boy in math. He stares at his sheet, concentrating on math, and trying not to make eye contact. I quite like this boy, I can't remember his name, but he's not a gossip, I really hate them. In History I sit next to this girl I wish I could just kill. The nameless girls wears too much eyeliner and lipstick, and her high sing-song voice gives me migraines. I also blame her, the notorious gossip, for every weird stare I got on the second day at school. She, or someone, must have told everyone I cut myself, because somebody tried to pull up my shirt sleeve in the hall.

Thankfully the session was over, so I was able to quickly snap to my feet and walk out to my waiting mom.

I hate therapy. It does nothing more than motivate me to try again. I can't recover with people keep bugging me about the problem.

So I tried again.

This time I decided to do it right. Overdosing was a stupid idea. It took too long and it was easy to fix. Plus it was slow and painful. I need a quicker and more effective way this time.

I waited until my parents were out ghost-hunting. They now trusted me to be home alone; they stupidly believed that I was recovering and decided to just completely ignore the suicide attempt. What idiots.

I found my next weapon of choice in my parents' lab. A gun. Not an ecto-gun. A real gun. I knew from TV and reading online that the temple was the best place to shoot yourself so that you died instantly.

I guess I spent too much time staring at it because I soon heard my parents walking in the front door. It was now or never.

I quickly made sure it was loaded; it was. A single bullet. I only had one shot. Closing my eyes, I put the gun to my temple.

And in classic movie style, the trigger was pulled in slow motion. The shot range out, I collapsed to the floor, and death came a lot quicker and less painfully.

I guess it wasn't immediately successful. The hospital managed to stabilize me long enough. Turns out, I accidently shot myself not in the temple, but an inch below it. How stupid am I? I can't even kill myself right. I really am a waste of space.

Only Vlad was emotionally stable enough to visit me for more than five minutes, even after a month. It took three months to be conscious enough to reply weakly to people.

Vlad walked in and looked around before he sighed and sat in the chair. He pulled it closer to my bed and smoothed some hair out of my sweaty and pale face. My breathing was raspy and choking sounds often came from me.

"You're killing your parents and sister by doing this," he told me softly, patting and rubbing my head comfortingly.

"I don't care," I honestly replied, voice quite weak and hard to hear over the machines. This was now the second time they put the word attempted in front of my suicide.

"Why are you doing this to us Daniel? I thought you were finally making progress, and then you go and pull this stunt. You're lucky you're not dead right now. This is a gift, treasure it," Vlad lectured. I tried to laugh, but it came out weak before turning into a coughing fit.

"Nobody cares about me," I mumbled. "Not even me."

Well it's true, nobody does care. It's so dumb, why would they care anyways. I'm not worthy of it, but neither is anyone these days. It would be selfish of me to say that anyone gives a damn about me. I know people take care of me, I'm not stupid. But they care about some kid that does nothing but fail and fail some more.

"I care," Vlad tried to tell me desperately. "And so does your physiatrist, and your family and your friends."

No, the doctor gets paid to listen to me whine about my problems. That's not caring. I'm too big of a failure for my parents to care and my friends? What friends? Imaginary ones? Hello Vlad. You stalk me. You should know Sam, Tucker and I drifted apart. Those cards are the first time I've heard from them in nearly three years.

"I know you're thinking that I don't care, but I do. You're not my enemy, I view you as a son, somebody I can love and teach. I want to help you, but you need to help yourself to. I don't want to go on with my life while you go and murder yourself. I couldn't live with myself if I let this go on. You have to try, you have to get better. Please?"

I just close my eyes. I didn't feel good. It was getting harder to breathe.

"Daniel?" Vlad asked he seemed panicky. He put his hand to my forehead, which was beginning to sweat harder.

I didn't answer. I needed all of my energy to breath. I was gasping for air, my head spinning as I struggled for air. My eyes rolled back in my head as I heard Vlad yell for a nurse. I barely heard the nurses running in over the sound of my blood pumping wildly in my ears. Gasping for breath, I groaned when the nurses shift my body in order to check me.

Suddenly, the sound of my blood pumping stopped. The last thing I saw was Vlad's panicked look from the sidelines before everything faded into darkness.

Later I learned that I had died from the infections my bullet wound caused. As strange as it sounds, I'm upset that I never got the chance to really recover from it all. Vlad had me really wanting to try and get better again. Why am I so stupid?

Vlad ended up telling my secret to my parents. They were a crying and distressed mess, along with Jazz. I attended my funeral as a ghost. A lot of people showed up; including Dash, Paulina and their crew. Not to make fun of it either, but they really acted as if they cared. Why they couldn't have treated me like that in life, I'm not sure. My family cremated me and Jazz kept the ashes in her room. She transferred to a closer college and started living at home again.

I finally felt guilty about causing my parents and Jazz pain. They were so distressed all the time. I hid from them when they searched the Ghost Zone. All of my past enemies, since I hadn't hunt them in so long, eventually accepted me and covered for me.

Don't get me wrong. I'm glad I committed suicide, but I still can never help but wonder.

Would things have really changed if I never did?