Oneeeshotsss (mostly Dailtown brainrot)

Fake {Oliver Angst}

    (Tw: Sh, Panic attack, and like emo ahh angst.)

     Oliver smiled, walking home with his head up and shoulders rolled back in a confident posture. A award winning smile on his face. He might as well radiated sunshine. He waved to the people on the street who knew him, saying hi. He kept on walking, until he reached the door of his apartment. So close. He took a big deep breath and opened the door, spinning in and waving at his neighbour. Then he was at his door. He opened it and closed it, locking the door and staring at it, his iconic smile dropping slowly with his posture. He let out a long, exhausted sigh, shrugging off his flannel onto the couch with his fez. He sighed and walked into his bedroom sluggishly, grabbing his speaker of the desk as he walked pass. He connected to it and blasted music, then flopped onto his bed face first.

     Oliver was exhausted. Everyday he got ready and 6:30 for his shit job where he had to smile and wave at everyone. He was Oliver, Olivers charming and funny and friendly. Actual oliver, on the other hand was just fuckign sad. No One would want to know him. So he kept it up. Oliver has mastered the art of looking happy. Sometimes he wondered what would happen if he gave up, showed everyone this grumpy, tired version of the man they loved. He felt cold tears run down his cheeks as he instinctively reached up to his forearm, scratching at it. It started slowly. Just soft self soothing scratching. The more he fell into the rabbit hole of emotions that olivers head was the more pressure he used, he scratched at the skin he hated so much until it was red and raw, and kept going. He wanted it off, he wanted out. Oliver let out a soft sob, the sound drowning out into the music that blassted a little too loud. He could feel the skin gather under his fingernails he had bitten raw. 

     Slowly a red hot pain built up. It felt bearale. Then uncomfortable. The painful. Then terrible. It seethed up his arm, shooting all around him. All he felt was the burning, the soft wind drifting from his open window brushing against the open wound. He felt blood start to flow down. Red, hot blood. It reminded him he was human, He wasn't some robot. He sighed and stumbled into the kitchen, shuffling around for the bandages and pills he kept. He found some advil for the pounding headache and got to work disinfecting the raw, bloody flesh. He hissed air through his teeth as the bandage hit the open wound, tears forming at the edges of his eyes. He glanced down at his other arm, a dark faded scar running up the forearm.

     Oliver made his way back to the bedroom. He opened the door and flopped back onto the bed, not bothering to get into the covers. He just wanted rest. Real rest. His dark, bagged eyes slowly shut, as he curled into himself, in a fetal position, holding his arm.

(A/n: sorry guys! i was in a silly goofy mood ahahah.)