Alright, so we're going to give this a go.
St. Happenstance's Coffeehouse and Home for Wayward Plot Bunnies presents, for your enjoyment:
A Comment Fic Free-For-All
The rules:
Rules? Who needs 'em!
The point here is to roll around in some words and have fun. Are you stuck on your Nano? Does your daily word count feel like a millstone around your neck
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Some days, Frank's glad the world ended. He feels better suited to the desert, to this life, than he ever did to the "normal" world. Here, he doesn't have to put on a nice face or make small talk with strangers or smile to the cash attendant while buying his fucking cigarettes. He never has to say "sorry" anymore. In the desert, words are scarce and none of the guys would smile back, anyway.
There used to be days when the darkness would swell and he would grit his teeth and wait it out as best he could; his therapist would tell him to write in his journal or go for a walk or fucking breathe, as if that would make the world any less unbearable.
At the end of those days, his throat would be raw from too much smoking, and his palms would be bleeding from his nails digging in, too sharp, too hard.
Now, when he feels it swelling inside, he acts on it. He goes out looking for trouble, for something to kill. He's got his raygun, and when it's a particularly bad day, his knife or even his bare hands. There's something particularly satisfying about digging your fingers into a Drac's trachea. In those moments, Frank always has a thought for his therapist. Fucking breathing, for fuck's sake.
So yeah, some days, Frank's pretty happy about the way things turned out. He's finally allowed to hate the world, because now, the world hates him back.
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