hopeless purpose (dreamnotfound)

delightful repose

tw:// brief s.h. scar mention, smoking

the song above is what they play in this chap, you'll see. i recommend listening to get the vibe :)

warm rays of light pour through the bedroom's opened window. a sheer curtain flows and dances fluidly around the cool breeze drafting in. the sun's early morning umber rays stir the short daisies and tulips awake with glowing petals and thirsty leaves. an iridescent sheen of chilled dew collects at the surface of each brightly tinted flower, with crystallized droplets cascading freely down to the grass with quiet reward.

faint snores filled the bedroom within as a blonde haired boy rubbed at his tired eyes to clear the bleariness from his vision. his eyes lidded open, giving him a pointed view of the tan ceiling. the tip of each one of his blonde lashes curled up with filtered radiance, making him squint and turn his head down to the side.

the brunet boy was still sound asleep with the blankets resting at his raised hip bone. he must be a restless sleeper, seeing as his hair was sticking up in all different directions with some pieces curling loosely and others falling lamely flat.

dream studied the boy's exposed wrists sadly. a pout in his bottom lip and a sympathetic crease in his brows was enough for him to lean forwards and gently return the blue quilt to the boy's shoulder again; covering the tens of pale raised lines in the process. he knew george wouldn't want him staring when he was in an indisposed, unknowing state, so he'd pretend that he didn't see when the other woke up.

he faced forwards again and attempted to rub the exhausting stress away from his face to no avail. clutching at his stomach and tossing the covers away from around his waist, he leaned forwards off the edge of the bed to his record player.

for the past few years he always awoke with excruciating stomach pains. it'd never been diagnosed and unfortunately for him, it likely never will be because his parents deny the importance.

he has memories from when he was younger, maybe 8 years old, where he'd wake up on the living room couch sweating, hyperventilating, and writhing in pain.

that was the start of his panic attacks. which for the record, never went away. he used to hurt so badly that he thought he wouldn't live to see another second, and his irrational fear of dying made his tiny body wrack with uncontrollable sobs and shaking.

but as time went on and he grew up, he realized that it was just something he'd have to live with. maybe it was some organ-consuming tumor that would one day kill him if left untreated, or maybe it was just the universe being cruel, who knows? but eventually he stopped getting scared and accepted that he'd have to get over it- that technically speaking we're all dying, so his issue was insignificant. (grand scheme, at least.)

that mindset carried over into his personal perspectives of life itself and his methods of coping as well- for better, or for worse. the way he thought of and valued himself would forever be changed by a measly stomach bug. a bug that could probably be completely cured and rid it's victim of all pain if it was only shown the slightest bit of attention or care.

but that would be too easy, wouldn't it. too fair.

the record player scratched alive as a silver needle touched down against the spiraled vinyl. his fingertips twisted the black knob just enough to let the soft melodies fill the room, but not so loud that it'd wake his sleeping company.

retracting his hand away, he pulled his knees into his chest and rested his head against the window's wooden border. his fingers graced his pink lips with a cigarette. maneuvering his elbow over his knee and fumbling with a lighter, he brought the flame to the tobacco tip and inhaled to make the embers come alive.