High Anxiety - Dear Evan Hansen

Execution

So I wrote this thing like six months ago for some OCs and changed some names and stuff. I guess you could call it angsty? It's more violent. TW for blood and hanging. 

 A glass wall lay in front of me. The cell across from mine was empty, the walls and floor pristine white. I closed my eyes and took a deep breath. Stagnant scentless air filled my nose. I was restrained by a cuff on my arm, chained to the floor. I refused to look. It taunted my awareness.

I forced out my breath and opened my eyes as I heard a body hit the floor opposite the glass. The figure was hidden beneath a pile of white feathers.

"Ow," came a voice as the figure sat up and rubbed at a handful of plumes. He'd landed on his wing.

"Connor?"

"Yeah?" He looked up and around. His wings ruffled and folded behind him. The feathers crumpled and bent.

"Can you--can you see me?"

"No, but it's nice to hear your voice, Evan." He stood. He was unchained. Connor picked at the sleeve of his shirt as it bunched up against his elbows.

"Your wings look smaller than I remember," I said, squinting through the glass. Connor looked at his back. The wings had once been magnificent, spreading out behind him like a falcon's. Now they were limp, molting, and bent--blunt at the edges as if they'd been trimmed by a cookie cutter. He sighed, plumage ruffling again.

"They clipped them. They fucking clipped my wings with a fucking knife. And it hurt like Hell." Connor glared in my direction, his gaze stopping at the glass which held his reflection in its mirrored side. He walked forward towards it and pressed his forehead against the surface. I sat as near him as I could with my wrist chained. His breath fogged the glass and his fists trembled by his sides. His wings beat behind him. Tears glistened on his flushed cheeks. Long, brown hair fell lank across the glass and fluttered in his breath. Connor pressed himself into the mirror, flattening chest and face alike into the barrier.

"I'm sorry," I said, shaking my head, my gaze turning to the floor.

"What for? You didn't do it. And it's not like 'sorry' will make it any better." He pushed himself away from the glass and paced about the cell, shedding pinions.

"You, you're not chained at all," I offered. A minor comfort at best.

"I might as well be. Do you know what it's like to suddenly have a body part not work? Just put me in a wheelchair, for fuck's sake!" He shouted the last sentence to the barren ceiling.

I watched him, wanting both to run up and hug him and to retreat from the breakdown. Of course, I couldn't do either. Fear nibbled at the back of my mind. He wasn't chained. Maybe they wouldn't... They couldn't. They couldn't possibly have reason to do it to Connor too. I swallowed again and took a deep breath.

"I'm, I'm sorry. I never wanted any of this to happen to you, or to Jared or Alana or anyone, I--" Tears pricked warm in my eyes. A lump choked my throat. My nose stuffed. Connor fell to his knees and began to sob. His wings fluttered around him--a cloak of rumpled feathers.

"Evan, I want to go home," he said through his tears. "I want to be back at school, back in classes, book club, even all the things I always hated. I miss my sister. I miss my mom. I miss my friends. Oh, right. I never had those. But now I'll never get to!" He looked in my direction, his eyes bloodshot. His voice came out as a weak growl. "What are we gonna do?"

"I, I don't know. What can we do?"

"Well, isn't this sweet," a woman said as she stalked in. It wasn't a question. Her shoes scuffed on the floor. Her smile was sweet, somehow. Her gaze was soft. I glared at her through my tears as Connor shouted.

"You, you wouldn't," I sobbed. "You already got everyone else. Mom, please--"

"You should watch this, honey." My eyes were screwed shut against Connor's screams. He kept calling my name and cursing his attacker. One particular shriek racked with sobs forced me to look.

Connor was hanging from the ceiling. His toes brushed the floor, dancing ever so lightly over the snow. His wings were flapping as his body thrashed in the air, hands clawing at the rope around his throat. A river of wine ran down his back. One wing fell to the ground, a mass of quills and scarlet ink.

He spit a stream of sobs and screams. One of two guards brandished his silver dagger, which dripped red. The other guard held Connor still so the other wing could be severed. It too fell, accompanied by hysterical howls. The guard released him.

No longer supported by flight or restraint, Connor fell prey to the noose. His thrashing slowed. Tears fell from bulging eyes. His lips began to turn blue. His face drained of color as it all waterfalled down his back.

I watched in horror. My lips were dry. My tongue was heavy and sticky. I didn't know if I was crying. I didn't care. Connor's eyes went glassy and he hung limp. A buzzing passed over my skin, both hot and icy.

Detached wings sat soaked in the runoff. The body hung cold and still from the sky, caught by a lasso and given new wings of ichor.