How Many Posters (Grocers) Does One County Need? ||| GenLoss AU

I got a terror I can't shake, pushing down on my lungs

Anger
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a strong feeling of annoyance, displeasure, or hostility

...

Charlie didn't exactly feel angry when he pulled himself up from the sticky, cold, disgusting flooring, but he did feel very disoriented. He was able to stand up for a couple seconds, but stumbled over to a desk against a wall.

He steadied himself on the desk, his bloodstained knuckles clenching onto the edges of it. He closed his eyes for a bit, trying to clear the headache that was forming in his temples. As he creeped his eyes open a bit, he saw a small chair next to the desk.

Even though the chair seemed a bit small, he didn't think twice about moving over to it and sitting down, exhaustion starting to catch up with him from the running he did before he...

He rested his elbow of the desk and supported his head with his hand, trying to think of literally anything else. But then something caught his eye.

He lifted his head from his hand a bit, and squinted at a small, framed photo that stood near the corner of the desk. He reached out and grabbed the photo, bringing it closer. There was dust on the frame, and beside Charlie having just picked it up, there were finger prints that split through the previously settled dust.

He looked up from the photo and around at the room, remembering what this place is, remembering where he was. He looked back at the desk, which had a large photo book placed on top. He looked over at the two windows with plaid curtains that hung eerily still. He looked at a chest, which was infront of a bed. The bed that was his.

He looked around his room, his memories and thoughts finally slowing down enough for him to grasp at. He looked at the framed photo that rest in his hands, his hands that were covered in blood and slime. It was insane to think that the person holding the photograph was the same as the one depicted in the striped sweater.

He tore his eyes away from the photo and back to his childhood room. He was home. But, if he was home,

why did everything feel so... off?

He looked at a trophy that stood next to the chest. He got that trophy because of school, something to do with swimming..? But now that he thought about it, he didn't even know if that was him.

He could remember his childhood, but couldn't remember any specific details. He remembers making and eating food before school, his ghouls helping him. He remembers going to school, sometimes staying after for swim meets. He remembers his youth, but as a whole, not in detailed memories.

He clenched the photo in his hands, a scowl creeping onto his face. These memories weren't his. This wasn't him. Everything in this room, as far as he knew, was all fake - including the memories that were flooding through his mind.

He had finally found the strength to stand, and gazed at his room. The feeling that his entire life was a lie was starting to resurface, and he was almost reliving every single experience he had on set. He clutched his stomach while leaning on the desk, suddenly feeling sick.

His eyes fixed on a shelf hanging on the wall, filled with different colored slime filled jars. Before he knew it, he was taking the jars off the shelf, and throwing them about the room. His anger clouded what he was seeing, what he was thinking.

He swept everything off the desk, he threw his chair across the room, he picked of a lamp & tossed it off set. He could hear it shatter on the cold, concrete flooring. He broke his trophy, he tore some portraits off the wall. He grabbed the small framed photo and threw it at the window, and as the frame was not able to make it fully through, it stuck in the glass. He only stopped his rampage when he was met with a large painting.