The Worst of Me [Damaris/Saturn, Day 4]
Mar 20, 2019 23:32:36 GMT -5
Post by Deleted on Mar 20, 2019 23:32:36 GMT -5
Saturn Rhodon
Sometimes he couldn’t explain why it happened.
He remembers laughing one minute, spinning half naked and gloriously drunk along the edge of a creek and then the next – it was like his chest squeezed together and with shoulders hunched forward, everything was heavy. He knows he should feel happy, at least, what could have passed for it. It seems sacrilege that even on what would be his last night alive (to live) he thinks, I’m fucking miserable.
When he was home, his littlest sister would ask him if he was feeling sick. He'd be under the covers in his bed, head on his pillows. He told her it was just a touch of sadness, and she would sit on the edge of his bed, rearranging her little stuffed animals in a row in silence. He remembers her pulling back the ears of her mouse and saying that she would play doctor, and make him well again. She saw the good days, when he would bounce her on his shoulders, and run screaming through the house, creating such a clatter coming down the stairs, the rest of his sisters would start screaming (What is your problem?!). But he loved those days, when he could feel just as he was supposed to. Like everyone else. What a blessing it was to feel normal.
But sometimes life didn’t give cute little words for his wounds. Sometimes it brought an emptiness deep within his heart, gnawing at what should’ve been inside. He felt as though the emptiness would pull him down into himself, collapsing like a star.
Except he remains, all too aware of the buzz of life around him. Just a boy who’s suddenly cold, standing shirtless in the middle of a shallow river of water.
Then there were the bad days.
He’d told Damaris about wanting to die. Days sitting in the light of the afternoon sun in his bed, underneath sheets that had become so heavy he couldn’t move them. He was staring up at the ceiling, each hour passing with as much fanfare as the last until, his brain turning, listening to all the little voices that started to creep. From his father, you have to be a real man and get over this horse shit. From his mother, you’re supposed to be the strong one, for your brother and sisters. His sisters, explaining, we feel bad about it, but sometimes it's just so exhausting.
From the ones who trained with him, there was nothing. It turned out that they saw his sadness as some sort of contagious disease. Better to leave him in his own sickness, lest they get dragged down with him.
And then the thoughts that bit deeper, dragged him further toward an answer. Worthless. The first, and easiest, to listen to. What had happened to him was something he had to get over. His body was fine, and he was strong. Handsome. He had what he needed. He was a waste of space, acting like he was. You’re a burden – he hated hearing Damaris talk about how she felt, feeling it all too real, like a knife finding a space between his rib cage. But even when his little sister played doctor, or leaned her little head atop his chest, he wanted her to leave him alone (how could he make her sad, too?). And then the worst of all –
You’d be better off not existing at all.
The fire has burned down to embers now. Morning will come and there will be cannons. And he knows that what he’s done with Ex will never matter. Not even to those who bothered to pay attention to either of them (they were fodder, an amusing anecdote while those that were deemed protagonists lifted themselves toward the finale). What did any of it matter? And he should’ve felt happy, for not feeling anything about life, or death. That should’ve made standing there easier, except it’s just as bad as ever. Heavier, and heavier still.
He thinks about how he’s drunk, but does not find the euphoria he searched for – his torch had long since burned out, and now darkness took shape.
A shadow casts long beside him, and he sees Damaris cloaked in firelight.
“Dam…” His voice is hoarse, hard to get out. “The fuck have you been doing all night?”
And he feels sorry. That he left her alone, because he knows that she deserved better than standing in the shadows (wasn’t that the story of her life?). Worse still that he’s whiled away hours with people who aren’t worth half of his time. She was the only one that had ever mattered, since the moment that he had stepped off the train. Except he was too stupid to ever realize that she and he were bound together, souls chained to this sadness like a pair of depressed marionettes.
He wants to say that he’s sorry. He aches to let her know that she is not alone, that’s she strong and not to be afraid. He wants to give her everything, his armor, his weapons, his heart. Except he doesn’t want her to know that there is no clarity in his head, that he can’t help himself.
“It figures you wouldn’t know how to party,” He starts, words slurred, a train rumbling through the station. He stares with one eye open, the other squinted. “You know you should smile more, you’d be prettier if you smiled, Damaris.”
He wants to make it more painful, to hurt her. To make her hate him, hate everything about who he is.
“But I forgot that you’ll never understand how to be around other people, huh?”
It would be easier.
For both of them.
He remembers laughing one minute, spinning half naked and gloriously drunk along the edge of a creek and then the next – it was like his chest squeezed together and with shoulders hunched forward, everything was heavy. He knows he should feel happy, at least, what could have passed for it. It seems sacrilege that even on what would be his last night alive (to live) he thinks, I’m fucking miserable.
When he was home, his littlest sister would ask him if he was feeling sick. He'd be under the covers in his bed, head on his pillows. He told her it was just a touch of sadness, and she would sit on the edge of his bed, rearranging her little stuffed animals in a row in silence. He remembers her pulling back the ears of her mouse and saying that she would play doctor, and make him well again. She saw the good days, when he would bounce her on his shoulders, and run screaming through the house, creating such a clatter coming down the stairs, the rest of his sisters would start screaming (What is your problem?!). But he loved those days, when he could feel just as he was supposed to. Like everyone else. What a blessing it was to feel normal.
But sometimes life didn’t give cute little words for his wounds. Sometimes it brought an emptiness deep within his heart, gnawing at what should’ve been inside. He felt as though the emptiness would pull him down into himself, collapsing like a star.
Except he remains, all too aware of the buzz of life around him. Just a boy who’s suddenly cold, standing shirtless in the middle of a shallow river of water.
Then there were the bad days.
He’d told Damaris about wanting to die. Days sitting in the light of the afternoon sun in his bed, underneath sheets that had become so heavy he couldn’t move them. He was staring up at the ceiling, each hour passing with as much fanfare as the last until, his brain turning, listening to all the little voices that started to creep. From his father, you have to be a real man and get over this horse shit. From his mother, you’re supposed to be the strong one, for your brother and sisters. His sisters, explaining, we feel bad about it, but sometimes it's just so exhausting.
From the ones who trained with him, there was nothing. It turned out that they saw his sadness as some sort of contagious disease. Better to leave him in his own sickness, lest they get dragged down with him.
And then the thoughts that bit deeper, dragged him further toward an answer. Worthless. The first, and easiest, to listen to. What had happened to him was something he had to get over. His body was fine, and he was strong. Handsome. He had what he needed. He was a waste of space, acting like he was. You’re a burden – he hated hearing Damaris talk about how she felt, feeling it all too real, like a knife finding a space between his rib cage. But even when his little sister played doctor, or leaned her little head atop his chest, he wanted her to leave him alone (how could he make her sad, too?). And then the worst of all –
You’d be better off not existing at all.
The fire has burned down to embers now. Morning will come and there will be cannons. And he knows that what he’s done with Ex will never matter. Not even to those who bothered to pay attention to either of them (they were fodder, an amusing anecdote while those that were deemed protagonists lifted themselves toward the finale). What did any of it matter? And he should’ve felt happy, for not feeling anything about life, or death. That should’ve made standing there easier, except it’s just as bad as ever. Heavier, and heavier still.
He thinks about how he’s drunk, but does not find the euphoria he searched for – his torch had long since burned out, and now darkness took shape.
A shadow casts long beside him, and he sees Damaris cloaked in firelight.
“Dam…” His voice is hoarse, hard to get out. “The fuck have you been doing all night?”
And he feels sorry. That he left her alone, because he knows that she deserved better than standing in the shadows (wasn’t that the story of her life?). Worse still that he’s whiled away hours with people who aren’t worth half of his time. She was the only one that had ever mattered, since the moment that he had stepped off the train. Except he was too stupid to ever realize that she and he were bound together, souls chained to this sadness like a pair of depressed marionettes.
He wants to say that he’s sorry. He aches to let her know that she is not alone, that’s she strong and not to be afraid. He wants to give her everything, his armor, his weapons, his heart. Except he doesn’t want her to know that there is no clarity in his head, that he can’t help himself.
“It figures you wouldn’t know how to party,” He starts, words slurred, a train rumbling through the station. He stares with one eye open, the other squinted. “You know you should smile more, you’d be prettier if you smiled, Damaris.”
He wants to make it more painful, to hurt her. To make her hate him, hate everything about who he is.
“But I forgot that you’ll never understand how to be around other people, huh?”
It would be easier.
For both of them.
