Work Text:
Most would say his way of living was pure self destruction, maybe misguided in the guise of self- preservation. Maybe on a good day he’d agree, but of course, his pride was too much to swallow on a bad day, much less on a day where his teeth were flashier than his thoughts.
Any sort of cognitive remorse flashes momentarily before being once again drowned out by whatever bullshit he’d get himself into, just to forget about it the second he stepped out the door, then remember it weeks later, letting the resentment boil far past its worth. Its mangled, burnt remains never left his hands even if it became too much for his two equally as marred hands to carry.
Of course, living wide-eyed and rocket-heeled with nothing to lose meant running until his ankles buckled underneath him and his hands shook so violently his shoulders felt rusted stiff as curled up against cold empty walls and a pack of newports and the sound of his own screaming, pleading thoughts. The minty aftertaste was the golden ambrosia that calmed his nerves, maybe the breaking point was when he saw that bare skull in the walls, or when he nearly died of sepsis, or when he got fed up and ran away, or maybe he snapped at the overwhelming dread he felt at his mother’s wedding, or maybe even he was always fucked in the head.that last option was quickly shaken away, that meant admitting he was wrong, and the way he went around living was wrong. It was less about the theoretical benefits but more of the bitterness that seeped through every corner of his mind and body at the notion of being sold as a lunatic, morally inept. Being told to consider the perspective of another, to walk the mile in another man’s shoes when the damn shoes didn’t fit him in the first place. They never did . But obviously no one could ever understand that, the goddamn saints of the world expect him to pick himself up by the bootstraps, pray, and treat the world with kindness when it had been nothing but bitter filth towards a kid like him, but any logical fucking person would realize there’s no point in any of that. Why would he pretend to be frail because of how he’d been treated, waiting for some knight in shining armor to “fix” him. Any logical person would realize there’s no happy ending, no finding a chest full of gold in a hole and fixing your own goddamn situation just because “I had enough sheer fucking determination to do it, and it just worked somehow—” the truth was that people like that had reasons and people to do that for, he didn’t. Betterment for the sake of his own happiness sounded like the goddamn dream but, obviously, fortune favored the meek, of which he was not. He was proud and selfish, the bare fundamentals of humanity corrupted into its own pure vessel.
Animalistic and destructive.
He considers ending his misery tonight. No. Every night. His mind constantly flipping between living out of spite and ripping out his own throat because honest to god he can’t fucking take it anymore. It’s impossible to coherently decipher anything outside of his own mind.
Which would kill him first?
Rock bottom or all the shit he’s done catching up to him?
Maybe he is crazy.
Or just stupidly impulsive.
Maybe there wasn’t a difference anyways.
What mattered was that he didn’t want to see the next morning.
Yeah. That sounded right.
If he could do something without his own luck fucking it up it would be this.
Spend his last miserable night alive blowing his little bit of savings on a treat and a rope.
A last ditch effort at feeling happiness. Dignity meant nothing beyond this.
It wasn’t like he was living anyways.
It would be more accurate to say he died at thirteen.