hopeless purpose (dreamnotfound)

newfound perspectives

tw:// vomit, talk of death

a dank musk, a hard, sticky floor of grime, and the sounds of mumbling, hungover grumps all around.

that's what george woke up to. that and the feeling of phlegm rise in his throat, causing him to jolt upwards and uncontrollably choke. his once pale skin began turning sickly shades of purple as he struggled to let air into his lungs. desperate, clammy hands clawed at a hickey-covered sore throat, with thrashing legs sliding against the littered floor.

the wriggling body of bones turned over on its knees, hunching over with hands planted firmly on the dusty ground as spews of self inflicted poison came barreling out. all contents of george's stomach splattered on the ground as his coughing fit simmered down into just the occasional spit or congested throat clear.

george sat back on his ankles and used his sleeve to rub at his mouth, feeling absolutely disgusted with himself. he blinked away his teary eyes with forceful hands as he tried to gather his thoughts.

he hadn't been planning on waking up that day, otherwise maybe he wouldn't have been so reckless. he didn't prepare for the possibility that he could wake up, and rather than actually be dead, he'd just wish he were dead even more than before. and that's exactly what he was feeling.

not only was his throat now sore from regurgitating burning bile, but his stomach was in absolute ruins like he'd just been stabbed repeatedly. his head was pounding and he hadn't even opened his eyes yet, so he couldn't imagine the excruciating pain he'd feel once he eventually would. his entire body felt drained of all energy and life, like he'd been to hell and back at least ten times over.

"fuck", he groaned out pitifully as he finally dragged his hands down his face and opened his bleary eyes. he was startled by the man he recalled as wilbur who sat directly in front of george on the couch. he'd assumingly been waiting for him to notice his presence according to the blank, almost creepy stare he'd been passing.

the two simply looked at each other with wilbur analyzing everything he could, and george sitting confused with a weirded out expression.

"um... hello?" he questioned timidly.

"you nearly died", the tall man spoke matter-of-factly with no emotions behind his tone or face.

"i'd hardly call that dying, i just puked", george was feeling confused. clearly, he hadn't died which he was actually feeling upset about in a morbid and twisted way. he almost felt himself getting angry at the man for calling out his failure to accomplish his goals, but he withheld the attitude. screaming at someone that you're sad you didn't die is probably mildly concerning.

"i'm not talking about that. last night, you started seizing in the middle of your sleep. foaming at the mouth and all. then your heart stopped temporarily. you would have died if not for me."

he figured that was how he'd ended up on the floor with wilbur taking his place on the couch. but he wouldn't complain, wilbur probably deserved the minimal comfort of the torn couch more than himself.

it was odd to hear that though. that george had died. heart stopped, breathing ceased, brain function slowed, and fully died. was he supposed to feel gratitude that someone saved him? the right thing to do would probably be to give some speech about how indebted he is to the heroic stranger, how he'll be eternally grateful, and quite literally owes him his life. but george couldn't say any of that.

all he felt while looking at this selfless stranger was disappointment that someone had extended his dreadful existence. he did realize how messed up and utterly horrible it was to think things like that, but it was true. in a sense though, it did bring his clouded mind a bit of clarity.