in which boz posts snippets of short stories- some fluff, some angst, some romantic, some platonic, some just downright chaos.
[ mainly dsmp, might do some original stuff soon ]
IRL ANGST ▁▁▁▁▁▁▁▁▁▁ authors note this is gonna b sad & short lol ▁▁▁▁▁▁▁▁▁▁
it's over. don't ever talk to me again.
the clock ticks. ten til twelve. almost midnight. they should sleep.
it's over. don't ever talk to me again.
crickets chirp. sirens pass by their house. the blue and red lights briefly flash in their windows.
they really should sleep.
it's over. don't ever talk to me again.
texts left unsent stare up at them. a burn of alcohol taints their throat.
the air around them is thick.
perhaps sleep will come.
not now. but later.
it's over. don't ever talk to me again.
big, empty silences fill the room.
the whole house is a graveyard. ghosts of laughter and smiles. wisps of hugs, memories ripped into shreds and stomped on.
it's haunted by remnants of a love that could've, but didn't. a reminder of mistakes, regrets, the highest highs and the lowest lows.
they stand up, wobble on their unsteady legs, and sit back down. exhaustion prevents them from going further.
they're stuck, unmoving, anchored to the murdered romance.
anchored to the past.
it's over, don't ever talk to me again.
heartbreak isn't just un-kissed lips and loneliness threatening to swallow you whole.
sometimes, it's seeing his favorite brand of cereal at the store and buying it and driving home and placing it in your cupboards and then, oh, finally realizing that there will never be any more lazy mornings and spoons shovelled into pretty pale pink lips and a groggy voice still rough with sleep and, oh, that's a whole different type of hurt.
they stretch out on the sofa and watch lights from passing cars flash in their windows.
sleep, they tell their brain.
as if it's that easy.
___
unbeknownst to them, life goes on.
most people in their area are asleep, but one is glued to a similar position. mouth hanging open, no words passing through it's threshold. his eyes are trained on a small container of mascara.
it was their weapon; long fluttering eyelashes. when they looked up at you through them, you couldn't say no.
you just couldn't say no.
until you did.
until you did, and it hurts like a motherfucker.
please, clay, we can figure this out. please.
a tear slips out, making a glistening wet trail down his cheek. he can't be crying, he can't. and yet he is. he's sobbing, like a big baby. painful, wracking sobs. his lungs are about to burst, it feels like.
meow, goes the cat.
shh, goes the man.
where are they, goes the cat.
they're gone, goes the man. they're gone and it's all my fault.
meow, goes the cat.
outside, a car alarm roars.
please, clay, we can figure this out. please.
the quiet hum of the air conditioner kicks in.
he shivers. it's not that hot out. he doesn't need the added chill, but the white noise from it helps. dulls his thoughts. transforms them from sharp, lethal blades to blunt, palatable pinpricks.
goosebumps arise on his skin. they make him look alien. pale nubs sticking out of his body. covering every inch of flesh, even the places under clothing. he wishes he could just tear it off. tear it all off, return to a new white canvas.
a new white canvas he can destroy all over again.
because that's what he does, he splatters it with muddy colored paint, brush drawing aggressive strokes onto the paper, until you can't look at it without wanting to bleach your eyes out. until it becomes a misshapen lump of failure.
he destroys everything.
even them.
and perhaps, they're the thing he regrets destroying the most.
please, clay, we can figure this out. please.
once you spew words into the air, they cannot be taken back. they still hang there, dangling and unwilling to dissolve. not even the most sincere apologies can erase the sting.
the words existed. they were formed, as thoughts, and spit out into the world. they passed through your mouth and forced open your jaw. they rested on the tip of your tongue, only for a moment. then they launched themselves up and out, out of the damp cavern they were created in, out of the abyss that immediately tries to snatch them back.
it's an old house, the one he lives in.
a house soaked in words, unable to bear the weight of them polluting the air.
the man sighs. folds his arms behind his head. adjusts so he is laying down. closes his eyes.
he still can't sleep.
please, clay, we can figure this out. please.
officially midnight.
the cat makes another appearance, nuzzling his face lightly.
meow, goes the cat.
he doesn't reply.
because cats can't speak, and it's midnight, and he ruins everything he touches, and he loved someone, he loves someone, he broke someone, and there's nothing he could do to fix it.
authors note
this one's been in the drafts for well over five months 😉
published feb. 17th 2022
Oops! This image does not follow our content guidelines. To continue publishing, please remove it or upload a different image.
