(no subject)
A/N: for some reason I'm not very pleased with the outcome of my stuff. I mean, I enjoy writing and it gives me a sense of release, but I feel as though I'm not working up to my full potential and that frustrates me. I just can't bring myself to, though. I'm scared of what would happen if I let my emotions run rampant out through my fingers.
Small rain droplets land on his forehead and softly caress his skin as they course their way down his face. Rain was so peaceful; it could calm him in any situation. He sighs and shifts his position on his branch in the large tree, working very hard to release the frustration he is feeling within and towards himself.
Some days it was just so much easier to leave his life for a few hours when it was raining and sit in that tree, never on the same limb twice. Many times when it wasn't raining he would sit and just think, clear his mind. Being wet never bothered him; why should it matter this time? He knew the feelings of wet, cold, hot and dry. None of them seemed to bother him. He could care less about what he was feeling.
That was the problem with his life lately. He had forgotten how to feel. Or how to feel about feelings. He couldn't bring himself to care about how he felt, and apathy had taken over his thoughts. Often times, he would simply shrug if someone told him news, be it good or bad, and the only indication he ever really had any emotion at all was in his shoulders. It was an almost imperceptible gesture, but if a person knew him long enough, he or she could tell.
Now he sits here in this tree, while the cold January rain pelts his body, soaking through the thin clothes and making him unconsciously shiver. He may not care about what he feels, but he is still human and therefore will still react to it. As he sits, he thinks about his life. Caring is so much more work than it's worth. Who even cares if he lives or dies? He certainly didn't.
The rain turns to snow, large heavy flakes that congregate on his hair like dandruff and weigh down his eyelashes, making it harder to keep his eyes open. His stomach growls but he ignores it, still deep in thought about his life, or lack thereof.
If he can't like himself, or care about his life, who will? He shifts his position again, this time much more comfortable. The cold seemed to make him more lethargic rather than energized, as if he were a lizard. If he just shut his eyes for a moment, he would go back in to where it was warm and he would not be able to think in peace. No. It would be better to stay outside.
He closes his heavy lids and his chin drops to his chest. In his slumber, his body freezes and he never wakes up. Found less than twenty-four hours later, he is brought from the tree limb and his death confirmed as 'natural causes.' The team who brought him in, who did the autopsy all were thinking the same things: What a young age to die. He wasn't even two decades old, and It pains me to see his family suffering, but it is a relief that it didn't happen to my own teenager. The most common thought that ran through their minds, however was the typical response, meant to be a consolation but always turning out wrong.
At least he died in peace.