An old prompt that I decided to re-do [the fourth]
Prompt: Something Secret
Community: your_scribbles
Warnings: Death and variations of it, suicide by jumping and over-dose, terminal illness, sadness, and gang related death
Rating: NC-17
Authors Note: This is terrible. Actually terrible. It's super sad and I would normally say it matches how I feel, but it doesn't but the idea came and wouldn't go away. It's terrible because it has to be one of the most sad things I have ever written. I also think that it's terribly written. So, also, there is no pairing no happiness but maybe an 'aw' moment. Again, if you have trigger that is any of the warnings, DO NOT READ. You will probably cry.
I would imagine that one day, one day very soon that he will turn at the right time, in the right place and be shot to death. He hasn't done many bad things I suppose, a drive-by here, and robbery there. He's not someone you would think that would fall under the 'gangster' category but he does and isn't that frightening?
I imagine that she will pick up the needle one more time because really, being filthy rich and having tons of friends but, having no one to call home is really tough isn't it? So she'll pick up shove it into her arm and wait for the final pain to go away. She'll float and then instead of the usual crash and the horrible feeling of returning to reality, she'll continue to float because it was finally time.
He's a whore and she is his pimp, but he's in love with her and won't leave even though he apparently has people that love him and want him to come home. After all, who wants to go out and buy for a fuck buddy when you have a child right? Right.
She's alone and the air is cold and the wind is biting and in all honest, she wants someone, any one, to come and save her form the fate she's giving herself. I wonder she'll actually go through with it. It doesn't seem like she wants too but, in reality she thinks she's apart of, she has too. And so with final looks, seeing no one and hearing nothing but the violent wind she jumps and makes a bloody painting on the ground with her face.
He sits there, puts it down and rubs his head. There was once hair there but, no one. He doesn't have long they say, but they've been saying that for years. He sits and waits for the sun to come up, he knows his time is up but he wants people to read his work so he'll leave it on top of him, knowing his parents will read it when the morning comes. He's never seen the sunrise before and he wants to see it before be passes. Just once is all he needs, as he closes his eyes and a peaceful smile fades onto his face.
I know this people, all of them, in different forms but I know them. The problem is, I cannot tell you because they deny I exist or call me by some other name. They were wonderful with me, holding me, cherishing me and spilling there very feelings to me. But I cannot tell their tales, as many people claim that they don't have me but secretly they do. In time no one will be shamed to have me, and embrace me. Until then though, I am the silent recorded, who says nothing but make you feel the most comfortable.
Not every note related to death is a note.