To Be at Peace with Yourself

Chapter 1: Regret

So right off the bat, we're getting into some pretty heavy stuff. It's necessary build-up for the rest of the story, though. Just read the warnings and tread carefully.

Chapter Warnings: Depression, Suicide ideation, Character death

The featured song is 'Nightsky' by Tracey Chattaway.

***

Heavy sockets slid open, waking up their owner to another monotonous day. The skeleton wondered how he ever managed to sleep, all things considered. 

Maybe because the calm oblivion is the only place left to find relief... at least when nightmares don't plague me. Those days are the worst.

It was raining again, the soft patter echoing outside the window sill... just like that fateful day. 

The shutters need to be closed, the curtains are getting wet... but they're already in a moldy and tattered state of disrepair, much like the rest of the cabin. 

Maybe he would do it later... but probably not.

Fuzzy eye lights shifted over to the clock radio on the nightstand. It softly played a somber melody that he couldn't bear to turn off. It fit the current mood, allowing him to drift through his memories of what had been... it was also too much effort to get up. 

It's the only sound left preventing the silence from consuming me entirely. Silence reminds me of the horrible reality. It screams the truth of my life.

Noon, the clock read. 

Maybe I should think about getting up... but what's there to get up for? Anything that might have been worth getting up to is no longer present. 

That day, everything had been lost forever, leaving behind a sad, broken home with an equally sad and broken skeleton. A lonely creature doomed to an eternal hell he couldn't escape.

So he continued to lay in bed, waiting for something... anything to happen. He sighed, rubbing a hand across his skull.

He didn't even have the release of death to look forward to. 

Not being of the mortal world, he had no need to eat or drink. The skeleton simply... existed. Laying in a dilapidated bed in a destroyed home replaying his thoughts and memories. Going through the what-ifs of his pathetic existence.

What could I have done differently? What would have happened if I had stayed home that day instead? Could I have changed things if I chose a different direction to search? Was any of this been avoidable... or was this just something that was meant to be from the start? Did they truly ever had a chance to be happy?

All a futile effort, but one that managed to occupy his time if only for a bit.

Dull eye lights scanned the room around him. 

The door hung loosely on one hinge where it was broken long ago, a pile of rotten and maggot-infested rabbit carcasses sitting in the open doorway. Disposing of them seemed too great a task, so he didn't bother even as flies proceeded to make it their nest. 

At least it's some company.

The torn curtains flapped in the wind, like a ghost of his past relentlessly taunting him. The tattered, wrinkled bedsheets where he currently laid, which were probably in dire need of washing. Broken chairs and an overturned table lay in the corner of the room, never to be used again.

A congealed, moldy pot of... he didn't even know what anymore, sat abandoned on the stove. 

In the past, it was likely a wonderous meal, but now... he couldn't bring himself to touch it, even to clean it up. Something that, once upon a time, would have brought him joy... now not even a starving wild animal would touch it. 

Wouldn't really blame them.

Everything was layered in a thick blanket of dust. It hurt to think too deeply about it, but even so, he still couldn't motivate himself to remove the offending dirt and grime.

Not like there's anyone left to care anyway. I certainly don't.

There was a single piece of furniture that was spared the chaos, the rest copiously riddled with holes and gashes. 

Partially my husband's handiwork. There's no way in hell he would have gone down without a fight. The room's a clear testament to that.

The one thing he managed to salvage and take care of in that cabin, despite his lack of enthusiasm towards everything else, sat nestled in a corner.

A small worn dresser, holding a long, dust-filled urn, a folded white coat with a rusty old stain on the front, and a framed drawing... the only remnants of the family he lost. 

The only things I have left to care about.   

He stared at the crude drawing far longer than anyone would consider healthy, but he didn't care.

Rolling off the bed, the monster trudged toward the makeshift shrine, his gaze hovering over each item. The frame held it the longest, containing a rough crayon doodle of what had once portrayed their family, created by his then five-year-old son.

The child was so proud of his work, dancing around the house in glee. His mother had chuckled at the display, digging through their modest closet and pulling out a worn frame. The way the boy's eyes shined at that moment made the stars above cry out in jealousy.

A sad smile pulled at his face.

That had been twelve years ago. His son would have turned seventeen by now if he were alive. Tears welled up in his heavily bagged sockets. 

It's all gone... and it'll never return.

Falling to his knees, a strained sob ripped through his throat as boney fingers scraped against the filthy wooden floor. He didn't know he still had tears left to cry... but they still came out, all the same, blurring his vision.

Skull thunking the wood below him, the despaired god whimpered, "Geno... Goth... I'm so sorry..."

***

I think you guys can pretty much guess who's POV this is for the chapter. I promise this is a poth story, honest. We just need the build-up first before we get to the meat of the story.