And I Told Them I Invented Times New Roman [billdip]

Motion Sickness

SATURDAY, JULY 23rd

Dipper sat against the wall inside his closet with his knees pressed to his chest. He felt nauseous and couldn't gather his thoughts together. Everything was swirling in a blended mixture of panic and dread. He had his mp3 next to him — his phone had been missing for about a week — blasting the same song on repeat, hoping to bring him back to reality. He tried to focus on the words and the beat of the drums and the strum of the guitars. But he couldn't do it. He was in pure fight or flight mode.

How does it feel to be alone? I see it inside your eyes. You wanna be here with me and my own. See inside your eyes.

He was hyperventilating, unable to catch his breath. He wasn't even sure what had brought it on this time. Maybe he was just overthinking again — that was a usual culprit.

It's 'cause my lie is the truth. That's fine, we never know. The truth is what I'm after and I know the sign I'm searching for won't show.

The thoughts raced through his mind and he was unable to keep a singular one focused for any long period of time. A few seconds and it'd disappear and it was driving him crazy.

And I sing about what I dream about. And my dream's loving you tonight. And I have no doubt the words that I shout and scream so loudly late at night.

Biting his lip hard enough to draw blood, he ran his fingers through his hair as his body shook. What was he even thinking about before? He was just sitting in his room, browsing his phone, minding his own business. The panic was sudden and out of left field but he knew there had to be a reason. There always was a reason. Even if he had told Bill there wasn't. There was.

I don't think that I can handle, know I think that you'll be fine.

He grasped his hair and tugged, hoping the pain might help but if anything it made it worse.

"Fuck!" he screamed out, silently hoping that nobody heard that. The last thing he needed was someone calling the cops on him because they thought he was being murdered or something.

I've need met another lover who would love me the way that you did. Baby, ooh, you're different.

His grip on his hair loosened and he dragged his hands down to his arms, digging his nails in the skin until it bled. Pain was something that always grounded him, why wasn't it working now?

I don't think that I can handle, know I think that you'll be fine.

Maybe it wasn't enough. The pain he could cause with his own hands was minimal to what he could do by other means. Maybe it wasn't enough. It wasn't enough. It wasn't enough. He needed more and then it'd be over and everything would be fine.

I've never met another lover who would love me the way that you did. Baby, ooh, you're different.

Shakily, he moved from the closet floor and crawled into his bedroom, making his way slowly but surely to his mattress. Once it was in his hand, things would be better. Once he admired the blade, things would be better. Once he hurt himself, things would be better. God, he felt sick.

Like I have been kicked in the chest, and I know you never cared because you're just like all the rest.

Shoving his hand under the mattress, he pulled out his switchblade and flicked it open. Did he really want to do this? He had to do this. This would solve the issue. This would ground him and make everything go away. Then he could focus his thoughts. He could get work done. He could take care of himself like he was supposed to. He could fix himself. This would ground him and make everything go away.