A collection of dark, angsty, and bittersweet one-shots.
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Jake neatly ordered and arranged everything, thinking of his brain like a filing cabinet.
He could slide one drawer open and find a treasure trove of data and memories.
Some would get stu...
A dark, angsty exploration into Richy's character as he sets the stage for his death. There is no happy ending. Just some hope that another soul made it out of the mine as it burns.
TW: S*icide, self hatred, hallucinations, thoughts/descriptions of death and dying. I tried not to be too graphic, but you definitely know what's happening. Be careful reading, and stop if anything feels like it's too much. Look after yourself ❤️ —————————-///
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Richy
Richy would never see the sun rise again.
The ghosts of all the beautiful things he killed to protect his secrets haunted his dragging, stumbling steps as he traversed the mine, and ignored the cameras he installed. Gasoline poured and splashed from the canister he held as he wove through tunnels and gritted his teeth against the pain in his arm.
It was nothing compared to the emotional torture he felt inside. His thoughts were a tempest. Raging with the violence of a cyclone, every destructive gust ripped through the fragile edifices of his grip on reality.
Within the labyrinth of his mind, self loathing chewed on his soul like a pack of feral beasts tearing at the tender flesh of their fallen prey. Each bite drew forth burgundy rivers of desolation, self condemnation, and unyielding fury. Blending with the physical aches until he couldn't tell them apart
His arm throbbed as he ignored the yelling in his mind. Fucking Dan. Dan, who gave him a gun?! Oh, what an idiot! He scuppered all Richy's plans and left him scrambling to end it before anyone else got hurt. Ensure nothing remains but ash.
Rivers of cold sweat streamed down his grey face as he held his injured arm over his stomach so he wouldn't bang it into the rough wall. He wanted to punch the stone to take his mind off it. The bottle of pain meds he stole from his mother rattled in his pocket, but he couldn't risk taking them yet.
His breathing roasted his throat, but his entire body shivered as though an icy glacier engulfed him. The persistent tremble in his body intensified with every labored step.
The combined weight of his physical and emotional agony was an anchor on his back, dragging his broken spirit beneath tumultuous waves, where the agony of drowning and being hammered from all sides echoed through the depths of himself.
It didn't feel like any of it was unfair. The thirst was the worst thing. He kept smacking his lips together, attempting to inspire some moisture, but his tongue remained bone dry and coated in the remnants of bitter blood rust.
The blood he'd lost stained his skin and the stone as it dripped through the filthy dressing he tried and failed to use as a tourniquet. Everything felt like it happened to someone else. Something otherworldly piloted his body from the inside.
Like some demon possessed him, guiding him down depraved, treacherous paths, and the priest hadn't arrived in time to exorcise him.
And he'd done it to himself. Every choice he'd made since kidnapping Hannah had felt like suicide in slow motion.
