Sanders Sides OneShots

3am (Moxiety)

I feel guilty that this is an angsty oneshot, I should out out fluffy stuff, but I can't... all my stuff is angsty right now. I'm sorry.

T.W. Self-harm, death, and anxiety.

Virgil looked at the white of his bathroom. He'd been sat in there for hours, ever since they'd finished recording their video, or, more accurately, since Virgil had felt unnecessary, and he'd sunk down. He'd ignored their stares, and their hatred, Roman's snarky but playful comments, he ignored Logan's smarts, acting superior to everyone else, he'd ignored Patton's comments, ones that were intended to "lift him up" and "make him feel better" yet here he was. On the floor, his back pressed to the bath, his legs pressed against his chest, and his mind going too fast for him to comprehend.

"Just a joke."

"Indeed, you are difficult."

"Lies."

"Childish."

"Shut up."

"You don't know what you're talking about."

"Overbearing."

"Too much."

"Go away."

Go away... He knew he needed to, but he couldn't bring himself to do it. He looked at the scars on his wrist, some had faded and were nothing more than a thin, white line, others were bright red and angry, new, and noticeably recent. He looked at the razor laying on the counter, next to the sink, and he pushed himself to his feet, and looked at himself in the mirror. Maybe he should. It would be worth it, and no one would have to deal with him any longer. The cool metal was placed to his wrist, and before he could do anything, a knock sounded at his door. He put the razor in the sink, and padded across the floor of his room, opening the door a crack.

"Virgil, I made food, you need to come and eat."

"I'm not hungry, Pat, I'll get something later."

"Virg..."

Just then, Roman decided to walk past and intervene. "He says he's not hungry, so leave him be, he clearly doesn't want to be around us."

"T-that's not..."

Roman walked off before Virgil could finish, and he looked at Patton, to see that the fatherly facet had tears in his eyes, and was evidently worried.

"I'm fine, I'll eat later. I promise."

I promise – the worst two words he could have uttered. He watched as Patton walked off and he shut the door. He took out a pen, and paper, and wrote: I'm sorry. He wrote it over and over again, until it filled up the entire page. He took some tape, and taped it to his door, on the outside, where anyone could see it. He then went to the bathroom, and took the razor in his hands, and pressed it to his wrist, cutting the smooth skin.

I deserve this, I don't belong, I'm not worth anything, they hate me, and they don't want me.

He repeated it to himself over and over again, almost like a mantra, and each time he started a new thought, he slid the blade down his wrist, he didn't care if he caught a vein, or if he went too deep, he just wanted it to end.

After 25 cuts, he dropped the razor, and sighed. He pulled out the sleeping pills, he put 5 into his mouth, and cupped the water from the tap, and swallowed them all. He dragged himself to his bed, and he pulled out his pocket knife. He slid it down his wrist countless times, until he couldn't feel anymore, until he couldn't lift his arm, he looked around his room and not long after, it all went dark.