Thank You For Killing Me
Title: Thank You For Killing Me
Author: me
Rating: PG
Pairing: nothing established. you can choose
POV: second
Summary: Even as a kid, you sit there and watch all the successful people file by, going about their business, and a sudden realization spurs inside of you.
Disclaimer: a little sad. I sadly own nothing
Author Notes: enjoy =)
You have dreams. You have plans for the future. Who does not? Even as a kid, you sit there and watch all the successful people file by, going about their business, and a sudden realization spurs inside of you. It is like a hunger, insatiable in the fact it never stops, and only grows as you do. Until now. Life seems like it is at a standstill. Simple things never interest you. Eating is overrated. One look in the mirror can send you into tears. You shield yourself away from the ones who love you most. You are still so young, so desperate for attention.
You think of all the lies that have been fed to you over the years. Empty promises of something beyond your imagination. “Fuck you,” you think. Your imagination is larger than Alaska. Your dreams are elaborate most ending in you waking in the middle of the night, cold sweat covering a fine layer on your skin. Breathing labored, you try to cling to those lasting memories, but they never stay. No matter how desperate you are, no matter how much you will them to come leaping back into your foggy state, it never works.
Spring comes. A new age comes and goes. Warmth seeps in from the window, but with the blinds shut and curtain drawn, you are oblivious. The refuge becomes too much at times, you go stir crazy in the plain room with plain walls. One day, you have no idea weather it be morning, afternoon, or night, you creep down the stairs, taking one at a time. The adventure takes a grand total of twenty-nine minutes (you counted), and by the time you feet land on the ground floor, you are mentally exhausted. Growth, you tell yourself, this is growth. But hell, why not grow a little more? No one is here, and they have not been in quite a while. They gave up after a while stopped coaxing you down with soothing condolences and words that meant nothing. Your little cocoon of what you knew to be the truth was fine with you.
But that growth thing? It seems too soon. Way too soon. But before you know it, your feet lead you to the piano, covered in a layer of dust. Untouched by you, or anyone, in months. No music has come from this piece of artwork by you, and the thought makes you bite your lip in order to quell the tears threatening to spring up. A few more steps and suddenly your hands are poised over the keys. Before you know it, you are playing, just like old time. Perfect posture, prefect performance, just like any other time. But, just like you feared, it becomes too much and you are scampering back up the steps and are through the bedroom door, shutting it lightly. The tears come then, and you slide down the door and crumple on the floor in a heap, sobs wracking your light frame. They find you there in the morning, and when you wake up in the bed hours later, you do not question it. It comes by nature now. You learn to accept it.
Summer comes. The curtains are drawn now, but only at night. You cannot take the sun. It reminds you too much. But at night, the crickets chirping and the way everything seems to still for a few hours calms you. Now, you sleep during the day. A night owl now, they do not like it. But who are you to care? You gave that up a while ago. You still function; eat and sleep. Is that not what most humans do? Granted, most go and try to make a living, but you are set for life. Money means nothing anymore. Nothing does. But again, your fingers itch to make music, to do something, anything. Creeping down the stairs only takes fifteen minutes this time, a fact which makes you body tingle with excitement. The piano is still there, but with no dust. They must have seen you played it before, and decided to try and coax you that way. Do people not know things take time?
The guitar. It gleams, and sings, and when you pick it up, your body hums and the notes just pour from your fingers. With no pick, it makes things difficult, but you manage. You always do. You just sit there and play, and play and play until your fingers are numb with blood. You want to continue, but you can see the first rays if sunlight peaking through an open curtain. The thought alone scares you, seeing the sun again. Scurrying upstairs, you only breakdown when you are safely under the covers. The tears eventually subside, and when they check on you, the stains on your cheeks tell them what they need to know, but so does the shallow breathing.
Autumn used to be your favorite season. All the pretty colors of the leaves falling from trees. The satisfying crunch when you step on a leaf brings back the times when everything was okay. When life was good. When everyone was happy. Now you cannot even leave your house, let alone your room without past events hitting you like a ton of bricks. How did this happen? The reality makes you wonder if you really are what people say you are. You feel washed up, with the mind of a fragile child that just needs comfort from someone that can never give it. Like a child that never got approval. That was you. The youngest in a large family, the scenario just screams problems in the future. And it did. Nothing quite like this. You grew up to scream someone else’s words to people who tried to make something of them. People who wanted a story behind drawn out phrases that could be written into a book. People who wanted to be like you. But who would want to be like this? This was never in the contract, and definitely not in the fine print. You made sure you read that.
Christmas comes. So does the itch. A grand total of eight minutes it takes you this time. You stop though, looking at both the piano and guitar. Suddenly, from the corner, it yells at you. The cello, the same one you have had for years, the one you learned on, the one thing you have the most memories with. Your body takes over for your mind, and brisk, sharp notes suddenly spill from you. Concerto’s, your favorite, are played, and a tear tracks down from how desperate the music sounds. The cello always made you sad, and given your current state, it is a silly wonder why you have not broken down already. Oh yeah, that growth thing. Sure is a wondrous thing. You really did not expect something so simple to work this well. One last depressing note leaves you, and for a moment, you let the cello rest against you in silence, bow dripping from your grip that is in slack. Eventually, you set the cello on its side, always proper when taking care of instruments, and glide back upstairs. The sheets are cold when you slide in, but for once, your dreams are peaceful, and you wake in the morning well rested.
And eventually, spring comes again. The birds come out to sing joyous tunes, just like they did with Snow White. You find yourself humming along with them. Music is back, the familiar buzz flowing through you. They notice it. They stop treating you so special. They smile, and talk, but never say incriminating things to trigger you. Who would want that? It was taken a year, one long year for you to get this way. You fear somewhere deep inside you will never be like you were before. But, you push that away. Far away.
When they are still here, you travel down the stairs, never pausing. Your youthful energy is not like it was, but still, they can sense the return. The piano, guitar, and cello all sit collectively together, but you do not need them to express yourself. Your talent, the one who made you who you are today, is locked inside. Your singing. People can never get enough of it. Opening your mouth to suck in a breath, you sing the first thing possible, which happens to be something slightly off the beaten path. A song not by you, and a song not so depressing. A little uplifting, which is something all of you need right now. As you finish, happy tears stream down your face, and theirs, and before long, you are being hugged. The good times are not back yet, but this is the start, the start everyone has looked for for over a year.
And you know what? A little change never hurt anyone.
Author: me
Rating: PG
Pairing: nothing established. you can choose
POV: second
Summary: Even as a kid, you sit there and watch all the successful people file by, going about their business, and a sudden realization spurs inside of you.
Disclaimer: a little sad. I sadly own nothing
Author Notes: enjoy =)
You have dreams. You have plans for the future. Who does not? Even as a kid, you sit there and watch all the successful people file by, going about their business, and a sudden realization spurs inside of you. It is like a hunger, insatiable in the fact it never stops, and only grows as you do. Until now. Life seems like it is at a standstill. Simple things never interest you. Eating is overrated. One look in the mirror can send you into tears. You shield yourself away from the ones who love you most. You are still so young, so desperate for attention.
You think of all the lies that have been fed to you over the years. Empty promises of something beyond your imagination. “Fuck you,” you think. Your imagination is larger than Alaska. Your dreams are elaborate most ending in you waking in the middle of the night, cold sweat covering a fine layer on your skin. Breathing labored, you try to cling to those lasting memories, but they never stay. No matter how desperate you are, no matter how much you will them to come leaping back into your foggy state, it never works.
Spring comes. A new age comes and goes. Warmth seeps in from the window, but with the blinds shut and curtain drawn, you are oblivious. The refuge becomes too much at times, you go stir crazy in the plain room with plain walls. One day, you have no idea weather it be morning, afternoon, or night, you creep down the stairs, taking one at a time. The adventure takes a grand total of twenty-nine minutes (you counted), and by the time you feet land on the ground floor, you are mentally exhausted. Growth, you tell yourself, this is growth. But hell, why not grow a little more? No one is here, and they have not been in quite a while. They gave up after a while stopped coaxing you down with soothing condolences and words that meant nothing. Your little cocoon of what you knew to be the truth was fine with you.
But that growth thing? It seems too soon. Way too soon. But before you know it, your feet lead you to the piano, covered in a layer of dust. Untouched by you, or anyone, in months. No music has come from this piece of artwork by you, and the thought makes you bite your lip in order to quell the tears threatening to spring up. A few more steps and suddenly your hands are poised over the keys. Before you know it, you are playing, just like old time. Perfect posture, prefect performance, just like any other time. But, just like you feared, it becomes too much and you are scampering back up the steps and are through the bedroom door, shutting it lightly. The tears come then, and you slide down the door and crumple on the floor in a heap, sobs wracking your light frame. They find you there in the morning, and when you wake up in the bed hours later, you do not question it. It comes by nature now. You learn to accept it.
Summer comes. The curtains are drawn now, but only at night. You cannot take the sun. It reminds you too much. But at night, the crickets chirping and the way everything seems to still for a few hours calms you. Now, you sleep during the day. A night owl now, they do not like it. But who are you to care? You gave that up a while ago. You still function; eat and sleep. Is that not what most humans do? Granted, most go and try to make a living, but you are set for life. Money means nothing anymore. Nothing does. But again, your fingers itch to make music, to do something, anything. Creeping down the stairs only takes fifteen minutes this time, a fact which makes you body tingle with excitement. The piano is still there, but with no dust. They must have seen you played it before, and decided to try and coax you that way. Do people not know things take time?
The guitar. It gleams, and sings, and when you pick it up, your body hums and the notes just pour from your fingers. With no pick, it makes things difficult, but you manage. You always do. You just sit there and play, and play and play until your fingers are numb with blood. You want to continue, but you can see the first rays if sunlight peaking through an open curtain. The thought alone scares you, seeing the sun again. Scurrying upstairs, you only breakdown when you are safely under the covers. The tears eventually subside, and when they check on you, the stains on your cheeks tell them what they need to know, but so does the shallow breathing.
Autumn used to be your favorite season. All the pretty colors of the leaves falling from trees. The satisfying crunch when you step on a leaf brings back the times when everything was okay. When life was good. When everyone was happy. Now you cannot even leave your house, let alone your room without past events hitting you like a ton of bricks. How did this happen? The reality makes you wonder if you really are what people say you are. You feel washed up, with the mind of a fragile child that just needs comfort from someone that can never give it. Like a child that never got approval. That was you. The youngest in a large family, the scenario just screams problems in the future. And it did. Nothing quite like this. You grew up to scream someone else’s words to people who tried to make something of them. People who wanted a story behind drawn out phrases that could be written into a book. People who wanted to be like you. But who would want to be like this? This was never in the contract, and definitely not in the fine print. You made sure you read that.
Christmas comes. So does the itch. A grand total of eight minutes it takes you this time. You stop though, looking at both the piano and guitar. Suddenly, from the corner, it yells at you. The cello, the same one you have had for years, the one you learned on, the one thing you have the most memories with. Your body takes over for your mind, and brisk, sharp notes suddenly spill from you. Concerto’s, your favorite, are played, and a tear tracks down from how desperate the music sounds. The cello always made you sad, and given your current state, it is a silly wonder why you have not broken down already. Oh yeah, that growth thing. Sure is a wondrous thing. You really did not expect something so simple to work this well. One last depressing note leaves you, and for a moment, you let the cello rest against you in silence, bow dripping from your grip that is in slack. Eventually, you set the cello on its side, always proper when taking care of instruments, and glide back upstairs. The sheets are cold when you slide in, but for once, your dreams are peaceful, and you wake in the morning well rested.
And eventually, spring comes again. The birds come out to sing joyous tunes, just like they did with Snow White. You find yourself humming along with them. Music is back, the familiar buzz flowing through you. They notice it. They stop treating you so special. They smile, and talk, but never say incriminating things to trigger you. Who would want that? It was taken a year, one long year for you to get this way. You fear somewhere deep inside you will never be like you were before. But, you push that away. Far away.
When they are still here, you travel down the stairs, never pausing. Your youthful energy is not like it was, but still, they can sense the return. The piano, guitar, and cello all sit collectively together, but you do not need them to express yourself. Your talent, the one who made you who you are today, is locked inside. Your singing. People can never get enough of it. Opening your mouth to suck in a breath, you sing the first thing possible, which happens to be something slightly off the beaten path. A song not by you, and a song not so depressing. A little uplifting, which is something all of you need right now. As you finish, happy tears stream down your face, and theirs, and before long, you are being hugged. The good times are not back yet, but this is the start, the start everyone has looked for for over a year.
And you know what? A little change never hurt anyone.