TW/ Panic attacks, self hate, implied/mentioned self harm, past character death, eating disorder, suicidal thoughts
BASED ON A HEADCANNON ABOUT ANXIETY AND CONFIDENCE BEING BROTHERS.
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Anxiety Sanders was used to being alone, especially after his brothers death. He knew that they blamed him, he knew that they where right. His brother had died because of him, because he existed and because of that the others hated him. He didn't blame them, he hated himself.
The tally marks up his arms and down his legs would never begin to show how much he regretted it.
The small burns that laced his body, decorated his stretched-too-thin, would never begin to show the others how sorry he was for taking away their friend, for killing someone so much better than him.
His too-visible ribs and bony limbs would never make him less of a murderer, but the hunger made him feel something that wasn't guilt or regret, it made his stomach feel warm in a painful way. But he deserved it, and he knew - oh he knew - that it wasn't healthy, that it was killing him but he didn't care. Each rib that could be seen would never cleanse him of what he did.
But they could try, every new mark and burn that seared its way onto his skin made him feel a little less guilty, like his brother was forgiving him for what he did. But he knew that wasn't real, he would never be forgiven, not by the others, not by his brother and certainly not by himself.
So he added another line, another burn or another bite to his flesh, he skipped another meal and refused to sleep another night. And no one knew. No one was meant to know.
They wouldn't care either way, they hated him almost as much as he hated himself. Yet he couldn't help but hop they would notice the lack of life in his eyes, the way he flinched when someone touched his wrist.
They didn't, it was how he always was after all.
The nights spent alone with his thoughts where the worst. The panic that coursed through him and made his lungs burn and his eyes water made him want to cry for help, to have his pain noticed. But he never did. Instead he pulled at his hair and screamed through his sobs, praying that someone would come and hating himself because he knew they wouldn't.
Those nights, those exhausting nights, the walls would close in on him and the darkness would force its way down his throat and grip his heart painfully. They would remind him that he was alone, they would whisper in his ears and tell him terrible truths.
But he deserved those nights, when he curled up in his cupboard barely able to breath or when he pulled clumps of hair out and scratched up his arms, he deserved it all. Because he took him from them.
He took him, the most amazing and wonderful person to exist from them and from Thomas. He hurt Thomas and plagued his thoughts afterwards.
All because he existed, because he was the bad guy. And bad guys deserved the burns, the tallies, the hunger and those nights spent crying himself to sleep.
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I MIGHT CONTNUE THIS AND HAVE SOMEONE FIND OUT OR I COULD JUST LEAVE IT AS ANGST
