Sanders Sides OneShots

Happily Ever After... (Prinxiety)

Unedited

DON'T HATE ME. PLEASE.

This is pure angst. You have been warned.

I don't hate myself...

T.W. Almost everything... self harm, anxiety attack, mentions of blood. There may be more. I'm not sure.

It was common for Virgil to go to Logan during one of his attacks, yet it was more common for him to sit alone, in the darkness of his room, and let himself be consumed by his thoughts, no matter what he was told. Which was how they ended up in this situation.

Virgil had been in his room all day, and he wasn't willing to go out and talk to the rest of the sides. He felt awful, and his mind had been racing all day. His hands were in his hair, and he could hardly breathe. His nails had been at his wrists at some point, leaving them a bloodied mess, and his nails were jagged from being bitten and from him not caring. His shirt was twisted and uncomfortable, making him frustrated and empowering the anxiety. His hoodie was in a pile on the floor, which was taken off in an attempt to correct his shirt. His usual ripped, black, jeans, were replaced with torn, grey tracksuit bottoms, and they were covered in paint and blood. His stomach had small, albeit noticeable, and angry lines across it. The parts of his legs covered by the trousers had longer, more faded lines, yet some were still just as bad. He hated his appearance, and that was what led to the smashing of his mirror. He took one look that morning, and his reflection taunted him, told him lies, yet he believed them, believed it was who he was. So, he'd taken his fist, and driven it through the reflective item in front of him. The mirror shattered, and caused fragments of the glass, and aluminium to scatter across the floor, and bury themselves deep into his knuckles, yet he didn't acknowledge the pain, he didn't care. It made him feel better, made him feel worthy of something. He knew all he was good for was destroying things, and that's all he did.  He destroyed Thomas' happiness, destroyed his hopes, dreams, creativity, destroyed any logical reasoning, destroyed himself, yet the anxiety worsened, in him, and in Thomas. He, when his anxiety was at its worst, would lock himself in his room, making it harder for the others to find him, and get through to him. Throughout the day, he smashed more and more things, he was sure the others heard, yet no one came to check on him. His bathroom mirror, a mug, a few ornaments that he'd summoned himself, they were all broken. Yet if he came across anything from another side, like the ornament Roman gave him, or the mug Logan made, or the photo frame from Patton, he would make sure they were safe, and he wouldn't break them, he made sure he didn't. He didn't want to upset them, and even in his anxious rage, he would protect those gifts. Some of his older shirts lay on the ground, holes cut in the material, and some were ripped. Yet he didn't care, he didn't care about the shirts, or the ornaments, or the paper scattered around the room, from his attempt to tell a specific side his feelings, and never being able to get the words right. None of it mattered, it just served as a punching bag for him to release his anger, a way to forget. His breathing was labored, and he didn't care how much worse it got. He hated himself, and he didn't care how much pain he inflicted upon himself, he was going to hurt himself, and not let any of the others know, they didn't deserve his issues, didn't deserve to have him be a burden to them. They meant more to him than he would ever mean to himself. He was sure he'd caused some tears in his trousers, more than were already there, and he was sure his hair was sticking up all over the place. He knew tears were rolling down his cheeks, which were leaving tracks in his eyeliner, and that they were tracking black down his cheeks. His eyes were puffy and his chest was tight. He was in the middle of an attack too strong for him to handle, and he just wanted an escape. He numbly made his way over to a broken piece of mirror, and picked it up. It was of a relative size, it wasn't too big, nor too small, and it was just perfect for what he wished to do. He pressed the sharpest edge to his already bloodied wrist, and slid it down, applying pressure. He bit his lip in an attempt not to cry out. Despite hurting himself countless other times, it still hurt, he was never completely numb to the pain, only numb to the help it provided. He watched as the skin split and the red showed, he smiled a small, almost psychotic smile at the slight relief he felt, yet it was short lived, and he put the glass back to his skin, and he winced slightly as he created another cut in his skin. More tears fell down his cheeks, he knew he wasn't worth it. He kept sliding the glass down his wrist, yet he felt no relief from it. In the end, he threw the piece toward the far wall, and flopped face first onto his bed, burying his face in his pillow and screamed. He lifted his head when he heard a knock at the door. He wiped his face hastily, and grabbed his hoodie, hiding his arms, and putting his hood up, to hide his face. He walked over to the door, and opened it a crack, he kept his gaze down, and hoped his hoodie covered his face enough.