Not All Endings Are Happy

WC: 897

Warnings: TW for Rape-TW for suicide-TW for death-TW for mental illness

A/N: I’m fucked up, please don’t hate me. At least it’s only a one shot. Not edited, no beta. Also I wasn't planning on posting this on here but enough people liked it on my tumblr to seem like a few people might enjoy it. I use that term loosely. 

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The storm bellowed around him, rain pelting his already drenched body as he sunk and slouched into the mud. Tears streamed down his face, the taste of salt lingering on his dry tongue, he couldn’t recall the last time a day went by when he wasn’t such a mess. He wasn’t even sure how he ended up here, what lead to this moment. No, that was a lie, he knew, he just didn’t like to think about it.

It was the need that drove him here. The overwhelming crippling need he had to just—just one last time. Scott Jund hadn’t been the same since the funeral, everyone saw that he wasn’t okay and while all his friends took turns on suicide watch at his house what they couldn’t see was the ever living and growing insanity.

Snake had been his whole life. They always tell you not to let your world revolve around someone else and they were right. Not because you need your own life, or friends, or to not be a codependent mess, but because when they die so do you. When they suddenly stop breathing and existing, and you can’t see them, hear them, feel them, your world stops. It’s like someone took all the oxygen out of the room and you’ll never breathe again. It’s so odd that people can just stop existing, Scott had never been one to dwell or even be scared of death, it was the inevitable fate of us all and like most he just continued about unaware of the true evil that is death. It’s not the fact people die is evil, it’s the leaving behind the loved ones trying to cope that their lover, best friend, and life partner suddenly just doesn’t fucking exist anymore.

Like a phantom limb it leaves behind a sort of numb denial, what our brains know but can’t accept. Not until their scent isn’t lingering in the bathroom every morning, or you come home from work and you’re alone and cold and their warmth and life has just slithered away from you and you can’t quite remember what their arms felt like around you, or that certain hitch of their voice they made when you did that one thing they liked with your tongue. Happy memories are bitter remnant of a life that no longer matters and bad ones just make you realize how dumb humans really are and how much everyone just takes everything for granted. No one can come to you for advice because any fight seems stupid and pointless when you’d give anything just to be able to be able to have them alive again, or maybe just so you can remember what it feels like to be alive again too.

Scott Jund may have been breathing but he hadn’t been alive since he got the call. He could feel his mind fracture as the days since the funeral wore on, he couldn’t remember the last time he responded when someone spoke to him but he must have because they kept talking and nodding at him. He would blink some days and suddenly be somewhere else. He couldn’t feel anything either, he wanted to die, wanted all of it to stop, but how could he manage that when he couldn’t even manage to remember his own name.

He took to walking down dangerous roads and alleyways at night when he could get away from the people who watched him. Their eyes were always on him, fake smiles and false reassurances. Once they had the face of friendship but now they were just part of the scenery, walls with eyes that hounded his habits and behavior. But not even walls with eyes can watch him all the time.

Drugs helped numb the reality of his world but even they wore off leaving him feeling dirty and used, he just hoped he overdosed. He didn’t care about anything, any of it. He would cry when they would use him at first, before, during, after. No preparation they would just thrust into him over and over again until he was used up. He never fought back, never called for help; eventually he just stalked home dirty and disgusting throwing his husk of a body under the shower head cleaning off the crust and refuse. He wanted not to exist, he wanted the impossible.

He blinked. He was still in the mud, rain still drumming against the ground around him, the rumble of thunder behind the clouds resounding in the air every few minutes. He felt nothing, he wanted to feel again.

He blinked. His arms squelched in the mud as hot tears cascaded down his face. His breathing was rough and hard, and like in a confessional at a church he confessed his sins and begged for forgiveness to an entity that couldn’t hear him. He wanted to be heard.

He blinked. His nails scratched against the wood, mud and blood caked and spread over his hands as the first smile in forever seemed to stretch over his face. He wanted closure.

He blinked. He was happy for the hallucinations as he held him close one last time. He cried as he pressed his lips against those of his lifeless lover. He closed the lid of the coffin. He didn’t want to leave.

So he didn’t.