Infernal Dreams

Silence (Sad)

TW: Suicide, Self Harm, and Substance Abuse.

Darkness seemed to suffocate him as he listened to the words of the man at the door. "Thank you." He stated plainly and closed it only to stare at every detail of the wooden slab. His mind was blank, but only for a few minutes before he began to break down. Tears began to slide down his face as he fell to his knees. Everything he knew came crashing down around him as the words repeated in his mind, Your husband has been found dead. He sobbed, feeling his heart shatter into a million little pieces inside his chest. He gripped his shirt above his heart as he wailed, the sound echoing off of the walls of the empty house. His body shook with every terrible scream of agonizing pain that came from his throat. 

He cried until there was nothing left to cry, and he just sat in front of the closed door, the colorful home around him now just shades of grey. He stared at the picture he had grabbed off the stand next to the door as his finger traced over the man standing, smiling, next to him in the photo. He found himself smiling at the picture and then laughing hysterically. There's no way. He will be home any time now. He stood up with a crazy smile and red, puffy eyes. He held the photo close to him and sat in the chair facing the door, staring, waiting. Time passed; he didn't dare look at the clock as he stared at the door, his smile fading the longer his eyes traced the pattern of the wood. 

He was shaking once more as he clutched the photo. "Any minute." He reminded himself. More time passed. And no one came through the door. When the sun began to rise in the window, his fingers pressed firmly into the wooden frame of the photograph. "No..." He felt his body heat rise and his teeth clench. He... It can't be. He stood up, his legs hitting the chair he was sitting in and throwing it backward. "Why him! There are billions of people!" He felt hot tears along his cheeks once more as he screamed in anger. He shoved the furniture, tore the wallpaper, and knocked everything off the counters and tables. He yelled and cried as he broke every glass, porcelain, and ceramic item he could find in his blind rage.

He gripped his hair and fell to his knees in the middle of his mess. "Come back to me!" He screamed and cried, his body shaking and his mind twisting and breaking in his relentless grief. 

Over the next couple of weeks, things didn't get much better for this poor man. His home was a mess with broken furniture, possessions, and alcohol bottles. People knocked at the door, but he never answered; he only had interaction with people when he left the house to buy more alcohol and drugs. 

He stumbled up the stairs of his house and into the bathroom, which was in the same state as the rest of his home. He looked in the mirror at his grotesque appearance. His eyes were big and red, with bags of deep purple underneath them. His hair was greasy and crusty from not having been washed in weeks. His face was covered in uneven stubble, and his clothes were disgusting with stains and pungent smells. As he looked at his reflection, visions of his dead husband flashed in his mind, and a tear fell down his face. At the sight, anger rose again and he took a big swig of the bottle in his hand. He swayed and screamed before punching the mirror, shattering it. His fist rested on the broken glass, and blood slid down the cracks and fragments. 

He just let his fist drop and stared at the mirror, his appearance now as broken as he felt inside. He sat down in the bathtub and pulled the shower curtain closed. The bottle he held was soon empty and the drugs he had in his pocket now coursing through his veins. He smiled; the only noise that came from him was small chuckles as his brain brought his husband back to him. Days spent together at home or at the park now felt as if they were real once more. He fell asleep in this state, his dreams bringing him the same comfort.

When he woke up, he was hit with reality, hard, as he usually was when his "happiness" wore off. He climbed out of the tub, his head throbbing and his body heavy. He slowly and groggily made his way to the kitchen, where he grabbed yet another bottle and popped the top off slamming some of the liquid from the bottle. When he set the bottle back down he froze as the appearance of his dead husband stood in front of him with a small smile, and then vanished from sight leaving only the knife block in his vision. 

His mind drifted as he stared at the blades and he reached out, grabbing one and looking as a glint of light flashed. He stared at his reflect in the knife and his mind urged him on with the actins spiraling through his mind. He put it down, barely having the energy to resist the urge and turn to walk to the living room. He kicked broken items and bottles out of his way as he went and plopped into the chair. He stared at the door, drinking, crying, always staring as the day went on. 

When night came he got up and went to his bed where he continued to repeat this process for days. Wake up. Drink. Stare. Repeat. Over and over again driving him closer to the bring of insanity. 

This time when he he woke up he didn't have the familiar headache and when he looked around the house was clean. He stood up, head clear, and walked to the kitchen to find his husband standing there, smiling. He felt his body fill with warmth as he walked over and held his husband, the sound of sirens and screaming in the background fading as he felt his lovers warmth once more.