INCANDESCENCE - (Scyde)

˚₊· ͟͟͞͞➳❥ 05 - WISTFUL

WISTFUL

adj. - showing a feeling of longing

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Clyde gets sad sometimes. More often than he'd like to admit. He hates that it will just be a normal day, where he's just normally spending time with his friends, and then bam. He's sad again.

And his friends don't understand, and they will never understand. His friends will never know how he feels. And really, Clyde knows it's selfish to say that. Eventually they will. But for now, and for the future as far as it's important to him, they don't get it. They'll try and cheer him up but once he gets into such a mood it's practically impossible to drag him out of it.

Clyde wonders if a part of him doesn't want to be dragged out of it. A part of him, a disgusting, selfish part of him, wants to sit under the stairs, curled up and crying, until someone comes. They'll come, and they'll ask what's wrong, and he won't even be able to speak. He doesn't know why he wants someone to come. Maybe, deep down, he doesn't even want to be sad. He wonders if what people have said is true. That he's just looking for attention.

It's not. It can't be, otherwise why would he be sitting under the stairs. If Clyde wanted someone to feel bad for him he'd sit in the middle of the lunch hall and wail like a baby until his mother came to pick him up.

He did that once, when he was younger. She was very annoyed with him but all Clyde can remember feeling is being upset that people were so mean to him. He'd sat in the back of the car sniffling and wiping snot and tears on his sleeve.

He's under the stairs, and his mother can't pick him up, and his sleeve is still drenched.

Clyde wishes she could. He wishes she could come over and sweep him up in her arms and tell him it's okay. You're okay.

Because he isn't, he isn't. His mother wasn't even always nice to him, her temper easily getting the better of her. But she was his mother. No matter what, she was his mother.

And he fucking killed her.

And Clyde's dad will tell him, it's not your fault. Don't blame yourself. But he can't not blame himself. It's his fucking fault.

He bites on his mitten to hold back a choking sob. Globs of tears run into his sleeve, soaking it through. There's so many tears, he feels like he's drowning. Tears still in his eyes, tears running down his cheeks, drenching his sleeve, his knees, the floor. All of that came from his eyes. All because he's a stupid baby who can't even go to lunch break without descending into tears for no reason.

Clyde hears footsteps, and he knows he should move. He should get up and go to class, or just anywhere but there. Nothing worse than getting caught crying under the stairs, he should know.

But he doesn't. He doesn't have it in him to go anywhere. His legs suddenly feel like treacle, too thick and sticky to get up off the floor, too flimsy to support him if he did. He'd just melt, right back down there, and it would be even more embarrassing.

"Clyde?"

Fuck. Fucking shit. His friends must have gone looking for Scott. Haven't they realised he wants to be alone?!

"Leave me alone." he mumbles. It's carried away in a breath, nearly silent.

Scott doesn't, obviously. Clyde watches through the small slit between his arms and hair as he sits beside him, leaning back against the wall. Clyde sniffs, then chokes out a pathetic sob. Which he hates. Scott probably thinks he's a massive crybaby now.