Sanders Sides One-shots

Beckoning (no ship)

Ship: None

TW: Self-harm, self deprecating thoughts, mentioned suicide attempt.

I was gonna do angst, but I had a great fluffy idea instead! I'll leaving the angsty stuff for tomorrow's update.

Starts out angsty, gets fluffier!

Note is at the bottom!

Wrong. Wrong. Wrong.

It couldn't be right, could it? There had to be a mistake somewhere. What he was seeing couldn't possibly be correct. Absolutely not.

Mistakes. Mistakes. Mistakes.

There must have been something wrong with his eyes! Of course! After all, the result on the page couldn't possibly be his!

Failure. Failure. Failure.

He swiftly removed his glasses, rubbing his eyes until they were red. Hopefully he had removed whatever haze was deluding him.

But when his eyes settled on the distinct 50/100 at the top of the page again, he felt despair surround his heart and constrict it. With his breathing laboured, he tried his best to calm himself down. There could be so many more factors that might be the cause of his mind playing tricks on him.

Thoughts, questions, ideas clashed through his mind, his eyes darting around as if he could see a list being formed right in front of him.

Had he eaten? Had he eaten something bad? Was he hydrated? Was his water bad? Was he ill? Was he sleep deprived? Was he asleep and dreaming? Did he need new glasses? Was h-

Loser. Loser. Loser.

His questions came to an abrupt halt, interrupted by a sickly sweet yet hostile voice.

He darted to his desk, picking up a notepad and pen to write down a physical list. A reassurance for him.

But the moment the paper stared back at him, his mind went blank. What was he supposed to write? He didn't remember and he didn't know. Everything had been thought of in his mind, so why was it that when he tried to write it down, his train of thought froze?

This was what he was meant to be good at! He did this all the time! What was he hesitating for? This was his speciality!

"You can be so much better than this! You're meant to be so much better than this! What is wrong with you?! Get it together!" He sobbed, slamming his clenched fists against the solid wooden desk, ignoring the crack that he heard and felt come from one of them.

Violently, he thrashed around, looking for something to ease the sensation in his chest that made it feel as if it were burning him inside out.

The assortment of papers on his desk went flying all over the room.

The lamp on his desk shattering when it fell.

Pens clattering onto the ground.

Heavy books that narrowly avoided dropping onto his foot.

A glass cup of water smashing into shards.

And the spine chilling, blood curdling scream that accompanied it all.

He screamed and screamed and screamed and screamed.

He begged. Begged for it not to be true. Begged for some sign that his whole being wasn't useless. Begged for a sign of a mistake. Begged for the voices in his head to shut up.

He begged for unconsciousness to overtake him, to at least show him a shred of mercy.

But it never came.