their cries were left unheard,
but still did they yearn to be
with them.
A MINECRAFT YOUTUBER ONESHOT BOOK.
RANKINGS
trio #6 || 1.3.2021
thetrio #2 || 8.27.2021
george #222 || 1.1.2021
minecraft #280 || 1.1.2021
dream #284 || 12.20...
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Y/N THINKS SHE'S MAD. There's a ringing in her ears and it follows her everywhere, filling pauses in conversations and quiet surroundings with a sound that's been there since birth. She can't escape it. And it's naive optimism to believe that one day she ever will ( It's a given it'll disappear, as all things do. But Y/N knows the only way it will go away is if she goes away as well. And the concept of death frightens her to no end. ).
There's always a little madness in everyone, her father had always told her, with his eyes crinkling at the corners in a warm smile and his face pulled into an expression of what he'd always said was concern, but Y/N knew. It was always pity ( she hates pity. It makes her feel shameful and it paints her face shades of red in embarrassment ). We're all a little mad, some more than others. But we're all a little mad.
Perhaps he'd thought the words would comfort her, and that she'd draw her fingers from her hair that's been tangled and pulled at so much that there are strands twisting in the air and landing on the floor, and the only way to fix it all is to cut it off, and that she'd straighten her clothing that's tearing at the seams, and stop reaching up to cover her ears every few seconds. But she's learned that adults don't always have the answers, and if they do, they're usually so, so very wrong. So all Y/N can do is watch as chunk after chunk of her hair flutters to the ground after she's cut it, and sew back the pieces of ripped fabric together in ragged patterns. She can only wash the blood off of her shirt from her pricking her fingers so much on the sharp point of the needle, and watch as the water stained red flows down the river.
Sometimes when she's sitting in the dark, and it's nighttime and the stars that magic has strung across the sky in groups are blinking at her, the noises get louder. Sometimes the scar-littered fingers that she lifts and presses against her eardrums don't help block it out at all, like they usually do. Sometimes, when she's feeling particularly angry or upset, the noises-the crashing of waves against the rocky shores, the nearly silent chittering of animals or insects in the forest, the whistling of the wind as it brushes her tangled hair and makes it fly into her face-all blur together in a symphony of piercing sounds, and all she can do is squash down thoughts of how sticky blood would feel in-between her skin and the handle of a knife, or how it would cling to her hair and stain her skin and clothes after she's done k-
