Star Wars Imagines

Bullet Shells in My Brain - Anakin (Angst)

Summary: This war has taken it's toll on your mind and body, though it's almost like nobody has noticed. And you assumed that as a good thing. But Anakin noticed, Anakin loved you too much to not notice.

Warnings: Severe mental illness, depression, mentioning of war and death, do not read if any of these warnings make you uncomfortable

Requested!

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The war. You blamed everything on the war now. Because as much as you shouldn't, it was the war. It was the war that ruined your life. It was the war that tore the galaxy apart with pure white gloves. Pure white gloves that had everyone else do it's bidding for them. Everyday started to feel pointless.

As a Jedi, you knew that your well-being was supposed to hold up. You were supposed to be better than this. You were supposed to be more stable than you are now. You weren't supposed to feel so numb.

We weren't getting to the core of the problem. If there was anything you knew, it was that we were so far from the solution. We were so lost. It felt like everyday, we almost got farther and farther from the solution to this war. You can't even remember why it had started. Can't remember the events that led for it to be so harsh.

But you knew someone that did. And when you told him those same words that echoed through your mind, he didn't see that chew marks in your mind, he didn't see how badly this war was eating at you. He offered up explanations to how it started. But you didn't wanna know anymore. Cause you knew it would make you throw up.

Anakin was everything to you. He was your best friend, the person you had clung to as a padawan. He was someone you admired for his unchallenged talent. You might've said that you both were something more, but you had never spoken about it, knowing the code and the rules you both had to abide to. But you could feel it - the spark people always spoke about when speaking of love.

You couldn't feel anything at all if it wasn't with him though. You went back to your dorm, to your room with blank walls and shelves with few trinkets that were of beauty to you. Or from Ani. And you laid in your bed and stared at your ceiling.

You used to lay down after missions or a long day and cry. When the war started, you used to cry. Cry till the muscles in your core felt like they were being separated, pulled apart like strings and crushed. You would cry until your face hurt and your eyes couldn't squeeze out tears. Till the only way you knew you were crying was by the choked out wails leaving your throat. And then like a wave, everything would crash. That last tear would slip down your cheek and curve under your chin. And your eyes would stay open, eyelashes soaking and eyebags growing fast. Your face would go still, as if you had died. Maybe you had in a way.

Like the last night you cried. You died that day. Some part of you was rotting from the inside out. You were a zombie walking, one with armor and a weapon. Like a bad fruit, you spoiled the others and killed their cells. It seemed like everyone died around you. It seemed like you weren't the only zombie, too.

But now, as you punched in a 4-digit code on the panel to the right side of your door, it opened to reveal the same room that bled you dry.

Every night this room killed you more.

You unhooked your lightsaber from your belt, placing it down on a console table that was next to the door. The plant centered on it gave you peace, a living thing that you were able to make thrive.

You couldn't have shed your armor faster, boots kicked to the floor, one laying perpendicular to the hard wood and the other parallel. The least you could do was hang your clothes the correct way, smoothing them out and slipping into baggy pants and a comfortable sweater.