Randomfic: One.
Title: One
Author: pax_morgana
Rating: G
Wordcount: 576
Notes: I got bored and wrote this. I'm going on a second-person binge lately, I think. I wrote this one so that it could be from the POV of anyone you want, regardless of gender. The characters have no names. Also, I totally abused semi-colons. But look, ma! No italics! I write a lot of depressing shit.
You keep your window dark, the curtains heavy and closed day and night. You don't like to look outside; you don't want to be reminded of the things you've told everyone (and yourself) you have learned to do without. More than once, your hand reaches for the curtain, but you scold yourself - stop, go back to sleep, there's nothing out there for you. People have stopped coming to see you; your dark, lonely room depresses them. It smells of sickness, death, despair. You don't miss them much. They never had anything interesting to say anyway: get well soon; laughter is the best medicine; you're looking better today, how wonderful. All tactless, all stupid. You're content to live out the rest of your life in bitterness in waiting for the day your body is finally eaten up.
You like being alone, because you don't have to pretend.
You like it, because you can cry and be afraid all you want, when the nights get too dark and the pain overwhelms you. They didn't come to see you for your sake: they came to assuage their own guilt. You put on a pleasant face, even when you felt like you were being torn up from the inside, so they didn't have to face reality. Here, alone in your room with nobody else, you don't have to lie anymore. You sit in the darkness that you fear, and you don't have to pretend it doesn't scare you; there's no one to see you trembling at shadows. It's better to die in the dark so no one has to bear the indignity of watching. None of them would admit it, but they are all relieved to be relieved of the duty of watching. When you told them they didn't have to return, they didn't question you, and you were alone the next day, forever.
Except for one.
He still comes to see you, sometimes. Always on the nights when the dark is darkest, when you can't sleep and you can feel yourself shriveling up within. You never call him, he just knows. He slips inside unannounced and always shuts the door behind him. He sits down beside you and you press your body to his; you don't talk just yet. There are never any questions when he's here, no expectations to prove you're really okay. When you talk, it's not because he prods you to do, and sometimes you don't talk at all. His arm is snug around your shoulders, and he comments quietly that you've lost weight, but it's just an observation; he isn't chiding you or reminding you.
Your hands come together and you laugh at how much bigger his are than yours. He tells you about his wife, his work, his children (he has three girls) - he tells you because you ask, because you are no stranger to the bitter twinge of remembering he isn't yours. There's something beautiful about it, selfishly knowing that he comes to see you anyway, that he only talks about it because you want to hear. This is something only for you. After hours, he finally kisses the top of your head and whispers that he has to go. You say goodbye, tell him you'll see him again soon. You sit awake for another hour after he goes, alone in the dark, before you finally drift off to sleep.
In the morning, you reach out and pull back the curtains.
Author: pax_morgana
Rating: G
Wordcount: 576
Notes: I got bored and wrote this. I'm going on a second-person binge lately, I think. I wrote this one so that it could be from the POV of anyone you want, regardless of gender. The characters have no names. Also, I totally abused semi-colons. But look, ma! No italics! I write a lot of depressing shit.
You keep your window dark, the curtains heavy and closed day and night. You don't like to look outside; you don't want to be reminded of the things you've told everyone (and yourself) you have learned to do without. More than once, your hand reaches for the curtain, but you scold yourself - stop, go back to sleep, there's nothing out there for you. People have stopped coming to see you; your dark, lonely room depresses them. It smells of sickness, death, despair. You don't miss them much. They never had anything interesting to say anyway: get well soon; laughter is the best medicine; you're looking better today, how wonderful. All tactless, all stupid. You're content to live out the rest of your life in bitterness in waiting for the day your body is finally eaten up.
You like being alone, because you don't have to pretend.
You like it, because you can cry and be afraid all you want, when the nights get too dark and the pain overwhelms you. They didn't come to see you for your sake: they came to assuage their own guilt. You put on a pleasant face, even when you felt like you were being torn up from the inside, so they didn't have to face reality. Here, alone in your room with nobody else, you don't have to lie anymore. You sit in the darkness that you fear, and you don't have to pretend it doesn't scare you; there's no one to see you trembling at shadows. It's better to die in the dark so no one has to bear the indignity of watching. None of them would admit it, but they are all relieved to be relieved of the duty of watching. When you told them they didn't have to return, they didn't question you, and you were alone the next day, forever.
Except for one.
He still comes to see you, sometimes. Always on the nights when the dark is darkest, when you can't sleep and you can feel yourself shriveling up within. You never call him, he just knows. He slips inside unannounced and always shuts the door behind him. He sits down beside you and you press your body to his; you don't talk just yet. There are never any questions when he's here, no expectations to prove you're really okay. When you talk, it's not because he prods you to do, and sometimes you don't talk at all. His arm is snug around your shoulders, and he comments quietly that you've lost weight, but it's just an observation; he isn't chiding you or reminding you.
Your hands come together and you laugh at how much bigger his are than yours. He tells you about his wife, his work, his children (he has three girls) - he tells you because you ask, because you are no stranger to the bitter twinge of remembering he isn't yours. There's something beautiful about it, selfishly knowing that he comes to see you anyway, that he only talks about it because you want to hear. This is something only for you. After hours, he finally kisses the top of your head and whispers that he has to go. You say goodbye, tell him you'll see him again soon. You sit awake for another hour after he goes, alone in the dark, before you finally drift off to sleep.
In the morning, you reach out and pull back the curtains.