Work Text:
No beta, we die like Ocean O’Connell-Rosenberg, with our skull cracked open upon a loose wooden beam. We die grasping for a way out, for some way to survive this freak accident. We die yearning for greatness, no thanks to our lousy, unmotivated classmates. We die doing everything in our power to be the opposite of our parents, two good-for-nothing hippies who never showed us love. We die wondering if they would even care if we were dead. We die, fingers stretching for a better tomorrow, only to be met with the disappointing truth. We die as the most successful in town.
We die knowing this wasn’t what we deserved.
No beta, we die like Noel Gruber, with a broken safety guard piercing through our heart. We die recalling our deepest, darkest fantasies of a loveless, sex-driven life. We die secretly hoping someone would love us for who we were but always knowing no one would. We die with unspeakable self-loathing, unable to be true to our identity. We die waiting, always waiting, for our chance of sweet escape. We die, bittersweetly noting how morbidly poetic it was dying due to a literal broken heart. We die wanting more out of life. We die unsatisfied even in death. We die as the most romantic in town.
We die knowing this wasn’t what we deserved.
No beta, we die like Mischa Bachinski, with cracked ribs, trapped underneath one of the carts. We die, angry at the world, angry at our guardians, angry at our town that isn’t even ours. We die stuck in a world that will never take the time to understand us. We die feeling disconnected from our culture, separated from the one person we love without shame. We die wishing we could tell our beloved one last goodbye. We die, passion flowing through our veins, though no one could say for what exactly. We die as the angriest in town.
We die knowing this wasn’t what we deserved.
No beta, we die like Ricky Potts, with a mere brain hemorrhage. We die suddenly, unexpectedly, deviating from the norm. We die with a silent scream into the void. We die impassive and cold toward reality. We die diving deeper into our fantasies until we are swallowed whole. We die trapped in our own creation, refusing to face the truth. We die wanting nothing more than to break free from other people’s perceptions. We die never fully understood by the people closest to us. We die alongside our secrets. We die as the most imaginative in town.
We die knowing this wasn’t what we deserved.
No beta, we die like the one child not fully integrated into the choir, without our head and with a deluge of blood staining the crime scene. We die without a memory of our existence. We die thinking about a brother that we should be able to name. We die, leaving no mark on history, no life-changing impact. We die, an enigma wrapped in a mystery wearing something resembling a school uniform. We die clutching a doll to our chest, a relic of a forgotten past. We die searching for something, anything, that reminds us of a life once lived. We die wondering why. We die faceless and nameless, save for Jane Doe.
We die knowing nothing.
No beta, we die like Constance Blackwood, with a sickening crack of our spine as we hit the ground. We die with a burning hatred for our crummy, little hometown in the middle of nowhere. We die trying to defy expectations, only to fall into them time and time again. We die too cowardly to stand up for ourselves. We die trudging through the monotony of a predestined future. We die with a smile on our face, finally feeling the burden of life being lifted off our shoulders. We die as the nicest in town.
We die knowing this wasn’t what we deserved.
No beta, we die like the Saint Cassian Chamber Choir, with unfulfilled dreams and desires. We die fighting for one more chance at life. We die, just six kids with promising futures. We die as a conglomeration of dead bodies, not as Ocean, Noel, Mischa, Ricky, Penny, and Constance.
We die knowing this wasn’t what we deserved. But life seldom cares about what people deserve.