Work Text:
тнιrd.
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Rain fell from the sky, a light drizzle outside. It wasn't enough to keep people inside, it wasn't stopping them from running everyday errands.
That's why Tim was sitting on a bench, feeling the small droplets hit his face. It tickled.
The park is empty, no children to run around, swing on the swing set, and go down slides. Nor were there adults jogging at this time. The sun was barely out. Early morning. A rainbow would appear later. Most likely. He hoped so.
Closing his eyes and leaning his head back, he drew in a breath and sighed softly. Today the air wasn't humid or stuffy. It was a perfect spring morning.
Or was it fall?
The days seemed shorter and the nights were longer. That or the months all blur together. Did he do it yesterday or last week?
A weight was against his body when he'd try to sit up in bed. Instead of it being another person. It was a strong feeling that made him want to curl up and hide. Guilt? Doom? Dread? He didn't know. He's too tired to analyze his own emotions.
It's all your fault, something would tell Tim. He knew that. He knew everything was caused by him. This, though? He didn't believe it for a second.
Eyes fluttering open, he looked around. Nothing looked special or new. The rain picked up. He should get home soon.
Getting to his feet, there's a frown on his face. He stepped in a puddle. Luckily it didn't soak into his socks. That was good.
Making his way back home, the walk was slow. Despite the droplets of rain getting bigger and bigger, eventually pelting themselves against everything. The grass, umbrellas, store awnings, and Tim. Nothing would make him hurry. What was the weather to tell him what to do?
By the time he gets back home, his clothes are wet. The comfortable red flannel stuck to his skin and jeans damp with rain water. Fumbling with the key, he eventually unlocked the door, twisting the knob and stepping through. Looking around, it's no different than yesterday. Last week. Last month.
The noose was still there.
On the doorway, hanging there like it did nothing.
Like it didn't take the life of someone he cared for.
"I'm back," yet he still says. Tim expected someone to come running up to him, greet him at at door.
Though, the empty feeling returned, seeing that no one was there. His eyes flick to the ground. Right…wet clothes.
Yanking off his shoes and putting them to dry, he goes to get a new pair of clothes.
When he steps through the bedroom door, the bed suddenly looked alot more comfy. More interesting than changing clothes.
He wanted to fall into it and close his eyes. To sleep without sobbing.
Giving in, Tim takes a seat. The blanket only absorbs the water. His clothes don't feel as heavy. Another thing to do, change the sheets.
They still smelled nice. Couldn't that wait?
The longer he laid in this bed the less the certain smell would be noticeable. It was something to enjoy, savor and keep.
Everytime he stepped into the room he felt greedy. Wanting to just take a giant /sniff/. Like he was desperate to grab onto whatever remained before it faded.
Tim felt creepy, weird, and possibly obsessive. It was a part of grieving, though. His therapist called it that. He called it that. So therefore, it's grieving. He wasn't creepy.
Right? He hoped so.
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It had to be around nine in the evening. Tim sat at the table, looking around. The dull light of the lamp illuminated most of the room. He could see how much coffee he had left in the white mug.
It took this long for him to find out he wasn't over what happened months ago. He couldn't bring himself to stop moping just yet.
Clearing his throat, he lies his head down on the table.
"I miss him, alot," were the first things he said.
Minutes pass by. Tim continued, "There were so many things he wanted to do, but just couldn't take it anymore."
The abuse when he was younger. When Toby threw himself between his dad, mother, and sister. So he'd take the hits. His sister dying in front of him.
"Lyra," Toby's voice cracked with every word he said. Tim remembered that.
"You'd cry and cry until you couldn't breathe. Then come to me."
Why was he talking to himself? He wanted that answered, too. It was similar to when he had the camera up, basically documenting whatever he did while he waited for…something.
"I miss having your company," Tim mumbled, rubbing his face. When suddenly his finger touched something wet. He's crying. It's not a surprise. Not after doing it for the past months.
"We…we'd just enjoy being around eachother."
At last a sob broke through and his eyebrows drew together.
"I want to join you. Leave and never come back." he wiped his eyes with his thumbs.
"Why'd I have to make that stupid wish?!" Tim stood up, walking away from the table before he could slam his hands into it.
Everyone had a fear of death. Maybe not now, but when they were younger. Everyone died for one reason or another.
And stupid, younger Timothy wished that he couldn't die.
"I wouldn't have said it if I knew someone- something was there! If that faceless demon didn't exist!" he crossed his arms and hugged himself, sniffling.
Looking down at the floor, Tim watched as tears fell from his eyes. They drip onto the floor.
He wants to experience death, what the afterlife would be like. Was it pitch black like you're asleep, or was he a spirit after?
Sure the thoughts were morbid, but he couldn't help it.
After the death of someone he loved Tim couldn't take it. He thought about hanging himself, too. The most that'd happen was his neck being…dislocated. Nothing could kill him.
Tim couldn't die.
It frustrated him to no end. He was sad, angry, yet emotionless.
His fists tighten and he clenched his sleeves before letting go.
He punched his wall.
All of his welled up anger was released into that. His knuckles immediately began to hurt. The wall wasn't even dented.
Drawing his hand back, he huffed. The tears welled in his eyes again. Yet he still looked angry. Enraged, even.
"Let me die!" he still sobbed despite his yelling. Tim heaved.
It was no use.