Petals (dnf)

chapter one

dnf fan fic bc dnf is back yippie!! (i definitely just jinxed it)

if you find typo's, lmk, I'll fix it :) oh and I would absolutely adore comments and votes, if you'd be kind to leave them! <3

tw: hinting at self harm, and hinting at sexual assault.

—

I'm sorry.

—

George's favorite thing is sleep.

The plain aspect of nothing. Void, pitch and dark that makes sense inevitable. Turns soft glowing lamps and tousled covers into nothing. Turns scars, aching with familiarly and itching with regret, turns them into nothing but a dull, insignificant blur. To delve in the undeniably pretty existence of anything but.

George doesn't want to exist. Sleep is the closest thing to that feeling, and he can't get enough of it. 

If he could, George would sleep forever. Would lie somehwere dark, close his strained eyes and breath in the blank space behind them. Bask in how it feels to not. To not feel. Anything.

And then he wakes up, and he can't sleep anymore. He dislikes to wake up, even if the sun shines through peeped blinds or even the moon blinks at him.

It happens far too often. And, although George doesn't feel much when he does lie there in bed and stare at the ceiling, there's a sting in his gut. Much like the sting on his skin, although this one reeks of disappointment.

He's not even meant to be here. There's no point.

He might sit up, cold skin wrapped in shivered air, he might shake with confession and some kind of emptiness. But he hardly feels anything. It's blank, most the time. A lonesome stare at drywall, painted ivory and undecorated. A glance at cotton, trudging legs the mope back in blankets and pinch eyelids closed with unnamed, desperate hues.

He just wants to sleep away what's left of reality. But he can't.

He wakes up every time.

It's usually a couple hours after he manages to fall asleep. Three am seems to be most common, maybe four. An then he lies there. Will the void to come back. Please.

And, when it doesn't, he slips on old shoes and a navy jacket. Leaves his room with hurried feet, taps the first floor button twice, rides the elevator down. Walks out of the apartment. Walks somewhere, nowhere, any place his feet take him to. Maybe around the block, the next, perhaps down a whole street. Along backdrops of closed shops, breaking concrete, where flowers and grass peek through cracks. Flourish without even needing dirt.

George might be a flower, he could be shoved between concrete, but he has never bloomed. 

He doesn't even like flowers.

George spends some time at the beach often. Sits on the rocks. Lies there. Even outside, sleep avoids him with malicious urgency.

Usually the clouds are there. Grey and blocking any view of stars, a blankets of shrouded, dark charcoal. George doesn't mind either way. He doesn't even care. Just inhales, the rise of his chest, let's shivered air leave rapidly.

Sometimes he'll walk home after that. Sometime he'll walk around until he's tired again. Other times, he's never tired, so he walks until the sun rises.

Sometimes he never sleeps. He spends time doing other things, then.

Like spending to much time in the bathroom.

Or coding. He's a software developer. It was his major, in high school, for two hears of collage, before he dropped out. At least he's good at one thing that doesn't involve tile and shaking hands.