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rich couldn't breathe. it was small and it was dark and he couldn't breathe. here he was again, choking out sobs in the bathroom with the light off, because who can ever find the switch. even if he knew where it was, his hands were shaking too hard, he could barely see through tears and he barely had enough energy to cry. and he was alone. alone in his bathroom with no one home. his dad was out. probably at a bar or something and his mom was at work.
he couldn't really remember what triggered it. he had been watching tv and it- oh. right. there had been a fire. he was watching some documentary on historical America and it had talked about the Chicago fire. right. him, rich, the psychotic arsonist who burnt down his best friends house. who now had panic attacks when he cooked, when he smoked and now apparently when he watched tv. unlike jake. perfect jake who never had any trouble like that. any trouble at all. his best friend who was somehow completely forgiving. his best friend who broke his fucking legs to save him.
"god i wish he'd have let me die"
"he didn't actually want to save you. he probably hates you. being nice to the poor kid with a shitty dad is good for-"
"shut up you fuckin multivitamin" rich snapped. god, would that thing ever stop? would it just torment him till the day he died? even if he could learn to ignore it, he'd never be the same. never be, never, never. never be perfect, he'd always have something in his head, even though the mountain dew red had stopped it, that thing was still implanted in his brain. it would always be there, he'd always just be rich who sold a fucking bullshit popular pill to his friends just because he was so pathetic he couldn't get through freshman year without breaking down on the weekly and attempting suicide twice, before inserting a fucking sentient form of shock therapy into his head.
rich rocked back and forth, wheezing, his binder taking its toll. he couldn't take it off though, shaky fingers and dwindling energy were not the greatest combo. god he wished jake was here. he always knew what to do, never had breakdowns, always perfect. "pretty boy cliche" they called him, well it fitted. the smart, beloved, hot as hell, heterosexual jake dillinger.
why did rich always fall for the wrong ones. 4 in the afternoon, hyperventilating in a dark bathroom with tear stained cheeks and a rumpled button up. great time to contemplate his massive crush on the perfect jake dillinger. how he felt like he'd gotten punched in the gut any time jake laughed. how he had gotten yelled at in chemistry for staring at the back of jakes head and daydreaming. how he played one of jake's playlists and just cried. cried because his best friend, his- his only friend now- was straight. and even if he did like dudes, what are the odds. why would he ever even look at the asshole who burnt his fucking house down. the asshole with burn scars all down his front and back, matching the ones on Jake's arms and chest. burn scars that were rich's fault.
all his fault, all his fault. now the squip couldn't even direct him on how to go about even talking to jake after the fire. his lisp was starting to come back and his voice was getting higher. he was sure jake noticed it but didn't say anything. he could practically hear the squip snarling
"only girls cry richard, are you a girl?"
tears dripped down his reddened cheeks. why couldn't he be perfect. why couldn't he be just like jake. why couldn't jake like him. why couldn't he be deserving of love. deserving of anything.