#frcsti
How is it that everything he does ends up backfiring? He tries so hard to please; to do what everyone else deems to be right, but even then it’s not good enough. He can’t seem to do anything right and it’s tearing him apart from the inside out. He can’t find the words to describe the way he’s feeling but it’s not good. In fact, it’s worse than abysmal; a feeling he imagines is not far from a bullet tearing through his chest, spinning its way through his ribcage, bones shattering as it reaches the heart, shredding the muscle to pieces before coming out the other end. He’s clutching the front of his shirt, body shaking as glistening moisture builds in his eyes like little crystals, sitting there before finally making their way down his face, precious droplets, like rare diamonds on pale skin, the moon’s light reflecting from them as they fall from his chin. He can almost hear them hit the ground beneath him; can feel them land on his bare feet.
And then he’s falling, tripping over himself, landing in the ice and snow that covers the dead leaves; choking on tears, gasping for air, screaming for someone, anyone to help him because they’re dying, damn it, they’re dying, please help! And he can’t even see straight anymore and he wishes he could because he deserves to see the damage he’s done, deserves one last goodbye.
It’s his fault and he knows it; If only he’d listened when they told him it was too early, if only he wasn’t such a stubborn, stupid child. Head tips back and a bloodcurdling scream is ripped from his throat, echoing in the opening around him, shaking the trees, stilling the wind, stopping time, silencing everything around him. He’s holding his breath, and then he’s heaving into the leaves, tears streaming down his face, snot mingling with the salt water that mars his swollen face. There’s no one left for him now, and the ragged hole in ice is not dissimilar to the one he can feel in his chest.
He lies there, trembling and choking and begging as snow lands on his skin, so cold it burns though he’s numb to this kind of pain now that he has one that’s set deeper within; ingrained in his heart, cut into muscle, leaving ragged cuts that bleed, leaving him weak and nauseous. He’s left for dead by Mother Nature and he can’t bring himself to care, cerulean eyes trained, unblinking, on the same shatter in ice, silently willing it to spit his family back up because what will he do without them? He’d feel so lost if it wasn’t for the ice that’s consuming him from the inside and out, a sort of cocoon that isolates him from human emotions.
He’s going to die here, and the thought makes him smile because he doesn’t need to bear the burden of his family’s death on his shoulders, won’t have to feel his bones collapse beneath the pressure of it. He’s content like this, and allows himself to lose the blurred sight he has of the place he thinks of as his beloveds’ grave, lids closing over icy blues that were once home to such mischief, such life. A single tear is released as lips part, last breath leaving him in form of a pale cloud that dissipates into the frigid winter air.
It’s ironic, really, how similar existence is to that single cloud of air.
