dreamnotfound / gream • one shot / short story book

ghost of you

I'm just in a kill them off mood apparently

Warnings: angst, blood, mentions of death, bullet wound, alcohol
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George trudged through the once lively home. The gray walls that used to be scattered with photos of better days.

Days when they went on dates.

Days when they stayed home.

Days when George was happy.

Days when Clay was breathing.

Days when Clay wasn't six feet under a pitiful tombstone.

The oversized sweatshirt George wore was losing its familiar scent of the man who died with the keys to his heart.

He clung to the green fabric tightly, puffy cheeks and red eyes itching from the crying.

A bottle of an alcoholic something George forgot the name of sat empty on the wooden desk, rotting away with all of Clay's belongings.

Clay wasn't supposed to die. He wasn't supposed to be in the middle of a fatal robbery. He wasn't event supposed to leave the house.

It was meant to be George. 

It shouldn't have been you. George's slender hands grasped at the glass bottle that was nearing its way to emptiness, taking a long swig of the liquid that burned his throat as he drank it.

At this point, the burn of the alcohol in his throat was all that made him feel like he was still human.

George woke up fifteen minutes ago, like he has every night at three am for the last month since Clay's passing.

Nick didn't do much to help, being in Texas and mourning the loss of his one best friends was hard enough. He did try to reach out to George. He'd made a promise to Clay early on in George and Clay's relationship.

It was a particularly hard night on the blonde, he sprawled out across his bedspread staring at the ceiling. Ambience from a silent phone call filling the air with white noise.

"If I ever die..." Clay started, hearing shuffling on the other end. "Will you take care of George?"

"What's this about?" Nick asked, concern filling his voice, making it softer.

"I just- I feel like something might happen to me." Clay stared at the white paint of his roof.

"I promise."

And Nick wasn't one to break promises.

So he texted, once every few days. Trying to take care of George in place of Clay. Both of them knew it wasn't the same. It was just too platonic.

Too empty.

Nick sent little quotes and photos to George, trying to make him a smidge happier. They would call every once in a while, and each time they would break down and cry.

But today was different.

The alcohol bottles littered George's room. There was no call from Nick. No texts.

He was alone. The sound of the rain pitter pattering against his bedroom window softly, attempting to lull him to sleep.

George shook his head, sitting up quickly and walking to his bathroom. He looked at himself in the mirror. Once sparkly and fun brown eyes became dull and heartless.

George laughed at the thought. Heartless.

If I'm heartless. Why does it still hurt?

The bags under his eyes made him look sickly. The lack of sunlight making his pale skin even lighter. Refusing to eat food made his already skin and bones body even smaller.

George was fragile.

George looked into his own eyes, leaning into the mirror as the hallucination of Clay appeared in the reflection behind him. Blonde hair askew. Green eyes fogged over. Streams of blood running down his face. The hole in his head from the bullet still oozing blood.

George turned around frantically, tears streaming as he reached for the ghostly apparition.

There was no one there.

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600 words

Look at this muffin:

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