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Ghost’s been here before. Many times. After the worst flashbacks, he ends up in front of a mirror, staring into his own haunted eyes, a gun trembling in his hand. The barrel pressed against his temple feels like the answer, but he can never pull the trigger. It should be easy—his training taught him to shoot without hesitation. But when it’s his own life on the line, his finger freezes. He can’t explain why. He doesn’t want to think about it too long.
Some nights, he whispers to himself. Pleads.
“Please… please, let me die. Please.”
But the cold steel always slips from his grasp, landing on the counter.
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Bookmark Notes:
Fuck. This hit real close to home for us. Thank you, Doormat. It gets better. -Joey
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Bookmark Notes:
very depressing
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Bookmark Notes:
Ouch