The Impossible Death

CHAPTER 2 - THE BRIEFEST OVERVIEW

CHAPTER WARNINGS:

self harm, suicide attempts, depression, nightmares, dissociation, sympathetic deceit

PLEASE TELL ME IF I FORGOT SOMETHING!!!

(also, the self harm in this chapter is just... not exactly descriptive, but the way it's talked about may be pretty triggering so please be careful!)

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Deceit doesn't dream. He has no need to. It is not his job.

So when the nightmares began, he was more than just confused.

He was terrified.

They started off infrequent with maybe one a month. All too quickly, it turned into every night.

Every time his eyes closed and his consciousness drifted off, he would always awake screaming and in a cold sweat. Terrified.

The dreams he could never remember, but the feeling stuck around.

Helplessness, hopelessness, and fear. So much fear.

Those feelings began to never leave, instead plaguing him throughout both his waking hours and sleeping ones.

There was no peace.

Just as quickly as these feelings began, however, the dissipated and left nothing behind.

He felt nothing, and that was arguably worse.

He just wanted to feel something. To feel alive again.

That was when he found a new past time.

He had always appreciated art, after all. How was this much different?

As he saw the blue and purple marks come to life on his skin, he felt something else pulling at him. Tempting him to add a new color to the mix.

The red made what he already considered beautiful arguably more stunning as it contrasted in both texture and color with the backdrop of blues, yellows, and purples.

He finally felt something again. The pain of his art bringing him out of his emotionless shell to appreciate what he'd created.

Sad to say, the fix he'd discovered was only temporary.

Soon enough, the nightmares began again and he was filled with the same fear as before.

His art didn't help as much anymore. Instead, it fueled the terror that filled him.

So he covered himself up with gloves, long sleeved shirts, and even a cape.

The more layers to separate himself from what he did, the better.

This was only the beginning.

As time went on, the nightmares worsened, though he still didn't remember any of them. When he wasn't having the nightmares, he'd go back to not feeling at all and continue his artwork if he could.

Sometimes he just couldn't be bothered to do anything. Not even his art. Even though he knew it would make him feel better, he just couldn't find any motivation to do anything.

Sometimes he felt like he was flying. Sometimes he thought he was dead.

Mostly, he just wished he was dead.

But sides couldn't die. Well, at least he figured they couldn't. Where would that leave Thomas?

He didn't care. He'd probably be fine.

Maybe it was possible since he wasn't necessary towards Thomas's functioning.

So he tried.

The noose didn't work, sadly.

He hung there for hours, unable to breath but never dying.

It just brought a new type of pain that he did not find enjoyable nor beautiful.

But he tried again, this time with a knife.

His wrist bled for days, but he never bled out. His bed sheets just got stained, along with his floor boards.

He wasn't sure what else to try.

A thought crossed his mind briefly, however.

If Thomas died, then so would he.

He chucked the idea quickly, knowing that wasn't an option.

There was no way he was going to be bringing Thomas or anyone else into this.

They didn't ask him to be alive, after all, so how could he ask them to help him die?

He wished he could apologize to them all for existing.