a finch with a broken wing

a finch that slips

tw: this chapter contains mature subject matter, including mentions of s/h, suicidal ideation and implied eds. please do not continue if any of these subjects will trigger you in any way shape or form. much love from me <3

There's a very specific feeling.

The feeling of slipping is one Finch has become all too familiar with.

It's one that seems never-ending.

There are moments, often, now, that render Finch completely and utterly useless.

They end up on the floor, hands and limbs sticky with their own blood, and unable to move without the constant fear of throwing up pure bile.

And there's no one to help.

They get scolded for the blood that stains their precious clothes, by their parents, and now, themself.

They've stained so many things; their bedsheets. Their clothes. Their fucking vision because nothing is making any sense as they lay crumpled on the ground.

There's a certain desperateness they wouldn't wish on even their greatest enemy.

The want, no, the need for someone to do something. Maybe for someone to message them. Maybe for someone to show up at their door. Maybe for someone to fucking hug them.

Maybe for someone to finally kill them.

They don't have anything anymore, do they? They've lost their parents. They've lost their friends. They've lost Glueboy.

They've lost a hope.

The briefest spark of hope that continued to flicker in their chest, whispering that "everything will be ok" and "hold on, we're almost there", has gone out. The match, the candle, the fire, whatever you so wish to call it, is gone.

And it doesn't feel like it'll come back.

Their need to be needed hasn't been fulfilled in almost two weeks. There's no one to talk to besides Birdie, and even Birdie could make it without them.

The promise of love they once has is gone. Just...gone.

Have you ever sat in a tub of hot water? Trying to get out after a long-needed clean, and you just can't seem to pull yourself out of the water, and it starts to burn as you scrape at the sides of the basin, nails breaking as you desperately scrape and suddenly-

Either you perish beneath firey-hot water or you break the surface and escape the burns.

Finch, now, is stuck. Not breathing beneath the hat water.

Or, think of it like this:

A chest, heart beating. A lack of air. A feeling of panic. A heart stuttering to a stop. A deep dread. Hands, clawing, desperate. You live, or you die.

Finch could be sure they're dying.

They can barely breathe. They hiccup along with their sobs, and while Ian is their greatest confidant, he's on duty. He gets to listen as Finch convinces themself that they're dying.

The pounding in their head grows along with their hysteria, hands pulling at whatever they can grasp. They pant as their eyes roam their room. Birdie beeps, but they can barely hear it.

They're an idiot.

A selfish idiot who takes what they have for granted, and ends up scaring everyone away.

They need to throw up.

Blindly, they stumble to their bathroom.

The bile rises and exits with a lingering sting.