YouTuber One shots

(BrOhm) - Lines

Trigger warning.

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Ryan jolts up awake, somehow drenched in sweat with the aircon on full blast. He takes a moment to breathe in and out.

“What time did I wake up this time?” Ryan sarcastically mutters to himself as he focused his eyes on the digital clock on his bedside table.

‘2:16 A.M.’ the digital clocks’ red letters blare out at Ryan. He sighs heavily and turns on the small lamp beside the clock and gets up.

He walks up to the bathroom and stares at himself at the mirror. “I’m so fucking pathetic.” he says staring at his reflection. His eyes has bags underneath. His arms feels heavier than usual.

What is depression anymore?

The pit. The deep dark pit of loneliness, despair, sadness, all things negative.

And at the same time… it’s a pit of nothing. No emotion. No feelings. No positivity.

Why did I end up like this?

Ryan washes his face with the running water of the faucet, then grabs a towel nearby to wipe all the water off. He walks back to his bed and just sits down.

He turns his arms over so that his palms would face him. “It faded.” he mutters to no one in particular. He turns off the lamp and turns on the light to his room.

Ryan looks around for a certain item in his room. “Where did I leave it?” he says quietly. He checks his drawer on his bedside table.

There it is, an object that can both harm and not harm him. Which helps him calm down the voices, at the same time. Not really.

It’s a simple item. A souvenir of sorts. It’s in the shape of a t-shirt. The design was nice, it was a galaxy color theme. Not much text details on it though. My house key, hanging on the key ring.

“I just want them to stop yelling at me… but if I do this. It’s not like they’ll go away. They’ll keep coming back. Wanting more. More and more. I don’t want to do this… but I just want to silence them… for at least a day.” Ryan whispers to himself. Silent sobs escaping him. “He doesn’t even love me… yet I keep trying. I already know I can’t have him. Why do I keep going? What’s wrong with me? Is something wrong with me?”

He holds the keychain in a way that the tip of the shirt is pointed to his wrist.

One.

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Nine.

Ten.

Eleven.

Is this enough yet?

Maybe it is.