your least favorite things

wires

   His shoulders would always slump as if he were so tired he couldn't hold them up. His breathing seems forced, seeming like every breath he took had to crawl its way through his sore throat just to get through. His eyes, half-lidded, look like they would close at any moment and never open again. But his smile-- oh, God, his smile.

   He smiles like he's hiding thousands of troubles and secrets, aching to let them out. He tries, he tries so hard, but all that comes out are nervous ramblings. How he isn't safe. How they-- the voices-- were going to get him soon. Nobody listens, of course. They assume he needs to be put in a madhouse. It hurts him, the fact that they refuse to trust them.

   Every movement began to look mechanic, as though invisible strings were pulling up and down, acting as a puppet to get him through the play. He shuts down, and he's no longer. The wires got the best of him.