Black Is Black
Title: Black is Black
Author: Kinwad
Pairing: B/J
Rating: PG13
Time Frame: Post 513 NYC
Word Count: 200
Summary: Life is about choices
Disclaimer: I do not own anything related to QAF. No copyright infringement intended.
Justin’s POV:
It’s easier to forget and ignore during the day. When you're busy, you can keep troublesome thoughts and emotions at bay when you’re busy. If you're lucky, you can block them out completely. I mean, the brain can only hold so much information at one time. If the present demands your attention and forces you to concentrate on something other than your miserable existence, that's what you do. You don't even register how grateful you are for the respite.
But at night? Malignant cackles of ‘could have’ and ‘should have’ circle your head like buzzards and shadowy visions dance on grime-streaked walls with taunts of ‘if only.’ The blackness of your pathetic, lonely room becomes a suffocating death shroud, the cacophony of the street below a mournful wailing. That’s when you realize you’re dying, draining of life one shattered hope and broken dream at a time.
Hysterical laughter bubbles in my throat. I don’t stop it. Somehow, the sound comforts me. The crackles of icy sizzle not only fill the spaces between the silence, they’re also a mocking reminder of my stupidity. And I have no one to blame but myself.
I need to go back home-and to Brian.
Author: Kinwad
Pairing: B/J
Rating: PG13
Time Frame: Post 513 NYC
Word Count: 200
Summary: Life is about choices
Disclaimer: I do not own anything related to QAF. No copyright infringement intended.
Justin’s POV:
It’s easier to forget and ignore during the day. When you're busy, you can keep troublesome thoughts and emotions at bay when you’re busy. If you're lucky, you can block them out completely. I mean, the brain can only hold so much information at one time. If the present demands your attention and forces you to concentrate on something other than your miserable existence, that's what you do. You don't even register how grateful you are for the respite.
But at night? Malignant cackles of ‘could have’ and ‘should have’ circle your head like buzzards and shadowy visions dance on grime-streaked walls with taunts of ‘if only.’ The blackness of your pathetic, lonely room becomes a suffocating death shroud, the cacophony of the street below a mournful wailing. That’s when you realize you’re dying, draining of life one shattered hope and broken dream at a time.
Hysterical laughter bubbles in my throat. I don’t stop it. Somehow, the sound comforts me. The crackles of icy sizzle not only fill the spaces between the silence, they’re also a mocking reminder of my stupidity. And I have no one to blame but myself.
I need to go back home-and to Brian.