Just a oneshot. I think we all feel like this at times. Reviews are love.
Sometimes, his own anger scared him.
Sometimes he thought he would end up killing himself. The fury would build up and up and up until he exploded and got himself killed. An accidental suicide. One of the proud, dead few.
Stupid. Calm down.
Stupid. Think before you act.
Stupid. Don't jump to conclusions.
Stupid, stupid, stupid.
Sometimes, his fears overwhelmed him.
Some days he thought the whole world would come crashing down on him and crush him beneath its weight. It would push him and shove him and beat him down until he was gasping and aching, his whole body shaking as it tried hard not to snap under all the weight of the world.
He worried, some days, that the whole world would explode and kill everyone but him, leaving him behind. All alone in the world. Just him and his problems and his hopeless, angry thoughts.
Some days, he was afraid to die.
Most days, he was afraid to live.
Sometimes he wished he didn't care anymore. Didn't have to worry about other people or other things or even himself, really. Just out there to be out there.
There's something freeing about being alone in the world.
There's something damning about loving people. It's the modern day Achilles' heel, the weak spot, that last little thing that ties you to humanity and reality and life.
Something he noticed—it's so easy to hurt and so difficult to heal that no one puts any effort in it anymore. People just hurt and hurt and hurt, smashing hearts with hammers and leaving the victims lying prone and bleeding and dying on the floor. Alone. Heartbroken. Dying.
Sometimes, his sadness swallowed him up.
It was a whale and he was Jonah, only there was no God to save him from himself and no way out. And the belly of the beast didn't kill him quick like it should have, but the digestive juices slowly burned away his flesh and weakened his bones, his brain, his heart. The stomach walls closed in around him and the juices rose and then he was suffocating and drowning and being crushed all at the same time.
Sometimes, he wanted to die.
Wanted to feel the bullet tear through his skull, wanted that sudden stop, that flat line when his heart stopped. Wanted those dramatic last words. Wanted to go out with a look of shock—dead, so young?—or one of stoic acceptance on his face. Wanted the tears of both loved and hated ones watering the ground at his funeral. Wanted a way out.
Sometimes, he wanted to live.
Wanted to feel the wind in his hair and the sun on his face. Wanted to always feel her lips on his, their fingers perpetually entwined. Wanted to always be able to look forward to tomorrow, to stay with those he loved, even if doing so just hurt more.
Sometimes, he wished he wasn't so angry.
So what if it gave him energy? So what if it made him fearless and powerful and kept him awake and breathing and forced him to stay alive and have a purpose? It ate away at his insides and burned away any positive feeling he ever had. It was a monster, a venom, a poison. Killing him a little too slowly, a little too painfully.
Sometimes, he wished he never had to sleep.
Sleeping set him back deep in the dark corners of his mind. Sent him places no sane person would ever want to be, to the middle of hell, a war, a fight, a plan, a death, a murder, a goddamn love story. Even the good dreams were nightmares because after there, going back to live life in the real world was three times worse and nigh on unbearable.
Sometimes, he wished he never had to wake up.
Never had to go around making stupid mistakes and doing stupid things with and to stupid people. Never needed to deal with conflict and problems and troubles. Just sleep.
Sometimes he wished things were better.
Sometimes he wished things were worse.
Sometimes he wished he didn't have to wish anymore.