wasting. | e.jeager

Pit of despair; no. 001

despair
/dɪˈspɛː/
noun
the complete loss or absence of hope.
"a voice full of self-hatred and despair"

-༄-

erens eyes linger on the dust that rested at his bedside table, like a blanket of regrets and a reminder of how long he'd been in bed for.

the summer sun trapped out of his room, unable to seep through and absorb his bones; feeling every crease and crevasse of his crinkled bedsheets. The grime almost visible, the grime of remorse. despair.

his mind & body like a vessel stood still staring at the ceiling. His body as still as stone. Unable to function, unable to breathe.

-༄-

Eren had considered killing himself the last couple of months. He didn't want to fester in his room like the rest of the meaningless objects he kept.

He kept them for the sake of Carla's joy, to give her some hope that her son wasn't going anywhere.

She knew he'd been struggling for some time, As she was well aware of his struggles and had tried to keep him stable enough to attend school.

After Grisha left,
Carla's husband, erens father;

Let the joy of erens childhood dissipate in Grisha's palms - Eren's palms - letting it slide through his fingers like dust, evidently letting this child fend for his mind, his own soul that he had to go on his teenage years with the distant memories that stuck to his bones.

the laughter that echoed throughout his bedroom, the memories of him riding his bike down the cracked pavement for the first time, his father being the one person who understood him, he actually understood his twisted mind, and the one thing he did was got up and left.

-༄-

His diary lie open, filled with years worth of raw, untouched thoughts and feelings he wouldn't dare tell anyone, the fear of being dropped to the sidelines by the only people he had left, his friends.

His eyes drifted to the empty bottle of vodka that lay on his floor, it bringing back the sleepless nights that he'd left himself crying like some child on his bedroom floor.

The memories leaving a sour taste in his mouth, causing him to clench his jaw. Gripping at the fabric of his crinkled sheets, gripping at any self-control he'd could muster.

He'd ultimately always thought of drinking as a bad thing, nothing good ever came from drowning yourself in liquor.

The urge to do so, to get that exact thought of self-destruction he craved.

Desperately clinging onto any innocence he had, making it his own, any memories he could bring to the surface of his brain letting it linger there, just scratching the surface; And how he'd walked on eggshells around himself his whole life.

his body and mind two different things, two different stories.

His body telling one of which he was neglected for, neglected by his lack of care from starving his body, letting it eat at his insides.
Like a ringing in his ears he couldn't get out of his head, it stuck like glue. Tacky and irritating, sticking other things to it, never-ending.