Jimmy (Solidarity) Oneshots because he is my favorite character

Dreams

(TW: suicide, self harm, death, violence, gore all mentioned)

Jimmy had navigated his life across a plain of emptiness.

Since he was in first grade he was harrassed by those he had considered friends at one point in time.

Since he was in third grade he had been abandoned by others who he desprately tried to cling to.

Since he was in fourth grade he was stuck in a friendship where everybody hated each other and were obsessed with fighting.

Since he was in fourth grade, he dreamed of death.

It never scared him like you might expect, he actually clung to those dreams, hoping that one day they might come true. His older sister, Lizzie, and him shared a room ever since Grian moved back into the house. That was when the dreams started.

Early on, they were tame dreams.

He dreamed that there was a shooting at a mall and he was labeled the hero by apprehending the shooter. He only got a few scratched but that wasn't the main point of the dream, it was the glory and love he had recieved.

Over time however, the dreams twisted into demons.

He dreamed that the loft he slept up, Lizzie above him, had collapsed on his legs. Not his chest or head, he was saved by the fact the cheap trundle bed his family bought was only halfway under the loft. In his mind, he had lost the ability of his legs but he didn't care. His family finally looked at him with care and love as they watched him roll into the ambulance. His friends were worried about him.

Other dreams were twists of reality.

Like a fun moment, going on a hayride with his family. It would be peaceful and the next minute, Jimmy was always stuck underneath the trailer, half dead. He had gone on a hay ride that day.

And then they started meshing with life.

One second he would be with his family in an elevator, the next he visioned it crashing, only him hurt.

He always had to shake his head to clear those thoughts.

The strange part about his visions and dreams was that he enjoyed them.

Sometimes when he layed in bed at night, he would conjure up the most gruesome scene he could. He would lay with his eyes closed softly and imagine blood, guts, and death. It was never anyone else's death but his.

When Jimmy was in eighth grade, he learned about suicide.

He considered the word in his head and tried to picture it. It wasn't hard to imagine him with slit wrists or hanging in his own closet.

He didn't wonder until he was in twelvth grade if what his dreams were considered were suicidal thoughts, self harm or ideation.

He started to question his own sanity.

Jimmy always had thought his thoughts and dreams were something everyone had. But he never shared them with anyone in fear of being told different. But it twisted into an amalgamation that he was suddenly scared of.

Jimmy had recently dreamed of hurting others.

He wanted to hurt those that hurt him, those people that laughed in his face, that pointed, that made fun of him. Those that never believed him or did nothing to help him. He had to clench his fists everytime he passed by those people because he knew if he looked at them for a second, he may snap.

There was one dream however that he did want to try.

It was a dream where he had snuck to the bathroom and overdosed on pills, going back to class and laying at his desk. Under him would be notes to those he hated, to those he despised and wanted to be hurt.

To those he blamed.

The notes would be in protective film, just to make sure nothing happens to it. He would die right there in class and those that were there were to blame.

He liked that one.

There were times where Jimmy would get the urge to write those notes. Those notes to pathetic counselors or bullies he had ever since he was a child.

But he couldn't.

Because they were just thoughts and he was going crazy.

He was acting out and being impulsive. Someone shoved him on purpose and Jimmy walked down the school trail next to hundreds of students, pulling his sleeves up and using a key to cut himself as he cried. Lines covered his arms in red but no blood was running down his arms like he wanted. Ever since then, his fingers itched for his keys to try again, to try harder and to succeed in drawing blood.

Jimmy held his head in his hands.

He was crazy.

He wanted to punch a wall too hard that his hands were bruised and broken.

He wanted to die as a martyr for those who needed a word out.

He wanted to put a barrel of a gun in his mouth while in class, shooting his brains across the classroom displays and students near him doused in oozing brain matter.

Jimmy knew he wasn't safe.

He wasn't safe to be around anyone, he wasn't safe to be by himself. If given another reason, he might just end it all in a fit of rage and sadness.

But he couldn't tell anyone.

They would hate him, they would lock him up. He would be alone and lost without anyone. He might be dead, younger than anyone in his family had died in decades.

But then again, who cared about someone like him?

His best friends had left him, he had been abandoned countless times. He had a rough relationship with his family, developing after years of goodness. It hurt him to see friends to the point he would try not to break down or kill himself.

He needs help.

But he is too scared.

(No this isnt a vent shut up)

(Okay... maybe it is...)