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schizoauthoressTitle: One of the Bad Days
Author: D.L.SchizoAuthoress
Rating: PG-13?
Spoilers: none
Warnings: Depression, and a first-person depiction thereof
Word Count: 156
Summary: exactly what it says on the tin
Note: Okay. This is more about me than it is about... anything else. But what are fictional characters good for if not transferring your issues onto them so you can deal with them better? (Originally posted to Tumblr about four months ago)
One of the Bad Days
Sometimes, it gets too hard to breathe. Every noise is a dull blade being scraped over his skin, every color too bright and pressing against his eyes. Even lying in the quiet dark isn’t good enough. His breath moving inside him, the beat of his heart — it’s all wrong.
It’s wrong.
It pushes him down then — smothers him in its reality the way that the dirt of his grave had threatened to smother him.
You are alive. You are alive. You are alive.
And he would scream. He would scream if his throat didn’t slam closed at the first attempt.
And he would cry. He would cry if the burning behind his eyes would ever resolve itself into tears.
But he just lies there, with a pounding heart and an aching throat, in the smothering dark that isn’t his coffin… and suffers through another day or another night of being alive.
*-*-*-*
Author: D.L.SchizoAuthoress
Rating: PG-13?
Spoilers: none
Warnings: Depression, and a first-person depiction thereof
Word Count: 156
Summary: exactly what it says on the tin
Note: Okay. This is more about me than it is about... anything else. But what are fictional characters good for if not transferring your issues onto them so you can deal with them better? (Originally posted to Tumblr about four months ago)
One of the Bad Days
Sometimes, it gets too hard to breathe. Every noise is a dull blade being scraped over his skin, every color too bright and pressing against his eyes. Even lying in the quiet dark isn’t good enough. His breath moving inside him, the beat of his heart — it’s all wrong.
It’s wrong.
It pushes him down then — smothers him in its reality the way that the dirt of his grave had threatened to smother him.
You are alive. You are alive. You are alive.
And he would scream. He would scream if his throat didn’t slam closed at the first attempt.
And he would cry. He would cry if the burning behind his eyes would ever resolve itself into tears.
But he just lies there, with a pounding heart and an aching throat, in the smothering dark that isn’t his coffin… and suffers through another day or another night of being alive.
*-*-*-*