How was he supposed to just keeping living?

It's a fate worse than death: being warped beyond recognition. The sole thing that makes you remember yourself being your voice and your memories. His life before the collider? Pretty bad, honestly. Getting walked all over, working himself to the bone, having his work stolen, coming home and passing out. But at least he was still human. He should've died then. That fucking collider should've killed him. The chance of surviving that incident was utterly insane, The Spot knew that-- despite not knowing the statistics. Hell, he felt like he was physically dying once it passed. His muscles were still spasming and internally burning, but he still struggled to view his blurred surroundings; it was like his brain was dangling the light of life above his barely functioning body and telling him to come back. Why couldn't he'd just given up?

Now he sits on the edge of his bed, debating whether or not to drive a kitchen knife in his chest and see what pours out. This bed was small enough already when he was Johnathon. It's impossible to lie on comfortably, now that he's The Spot. He's scared to break the silence he's drowning in now. The last time he started speaking to himself, it devolved into screaming and every reflective surface in his apartment being broken by his hand. Even looking at himself sends too many emotions at once. Anger, sadness, disappointment, reminiscence, all too much. God, he wished he could just die here right now.