It Wasnt My Fault (DNF)

Part 1: Chapter 5

Dream pov

I woke up in an unfamiliar bedroom, surrounded with bright green sheets, comforted by the atmosphere in the room.

However, the calm nature the house I was in was disrupted by the wave of panic that washed over me.

I backed up to the headboard of the bed I was on, my breaths quickening.

I close my eyes, attempting to control my thoughts, forcing myself to take deep breaths.

I wasn't in her house.

I wasn't being kept in her basement.

I had escaped.

As I collected my thoughts, I remembered the previous night, the familiar emotion of hopelessness overcoming me as my eyes opened.

I had tried, really tried, yesterday to heal.

To begin the process.

But I had relapsed almost permanently.

But George had saved me.

A small smile overtakes the impenetrable blank expression that had settled over my face.

He made me feel something when I didnt want to, and showed me that the outcome to feeling something wasn't always bad.

He made me want to be happy, erasing the thoughts of dissapointment that always weighted down any attempt at joy.

And so, consumed by thoughts of my friend, I stand up, walking out the door of my bedroom and into the kitchen where George stood cooking.

He was talking to something, but the only thing I could hear answering him was a rasping, almost electronic, repetition of gibberish.

I couldnt make out any words, but I could tell George understood.

"Hi?" I say, unsure as to how I'm supposed to greet a person in the morning.

The brunette turns around, smiling with no restraint.

"Hi, Dream." he says, his voice fond and soft, his British acccent making his words flow together beautifully. "Did you sleep well? Are you alright?"

"Yeah, I'm fine." I say.

He turns back to his cooking, not looking at me anymore as he continues to stir oatmeal in a small pot.

"That's good. How do you feel?" he asks, the words dropping out of his mouth without any reluctance, a sentence that made me halt to think.

How did I feel?

He didnt ask if I was okay.

That question was stupid. It was as though people didnt understand for a person going through the struggles I was, it was hard to say no.

Hard to say no to the voice when it told you to cut.

Hard to say no to people when they made you do unspeakable things.

Hard to say no the the fact that you're alright.

Because it's all too easy to lie, it's what I usually go with.

But he didnt ask if I was okay this time.

He wanted to know how I was feeling.

"I..." I couldnt lie. I tried, but it seemed impossible.

"I feel like shit" I began to cry. Pathetic.

"I feel like I cant heal. I tried, George. I tried so hard, I promise, yesterday i did my best. But it still made things worse. It still tried to kill me. I'm so..." I couldnt anymore.

I couldnt say anything else.

I just cried.

I thought he'd leave me alone, allow me to get out this supply of tears that had been shipped to me through the oceans of sadness I had, but he didnt.

He came to me, and he wrapped himself around me in an embrace, and I could hear quiet sniffles coming from his smaller figure.

George pov

I was giving Clay another hug that we both needed.

The words Ken had spoken to me yesterday were ringing in my ear.

It's hard to see the scars on the back of the hand that's helping you.

I didnt see it.

I didnt see the now apparent slits he'd made in his arm through his apparent anger and confusion.

He was so confused it hurt.

There was such a conflict that was raging wars inside of him that I could see a sea of emotion in his eyes, the vibrant green pupils his silent plea for help.

The concoction of pain that it was obvious so many others had inflicted onto him was too much for him to carry alone, spilling over into others who were there to see it, invading them with a sadness that seemed minor compared to his clearly vast supply.

And so I hugged him, feeling broken for him.

I knew pain, but I'd had someone with me.

Ken.

He even now stood watching the oatmeal with his hand on my shoulder, occasionally shooting me his supportive smile.

The smile.

Something I doubt Clay had ever seen from someone before.

So I pulled away from the embrace as he stopped crying, cupping his face in my hand and giving him a wide, wet grin to show my alliance with him in the battle of his life.

Because that was what we were fighting for.

His survival.

And with his survival or death came mine.

For so long, all I wanted was to end it all so that I could hug my brother again.

But I never would.

Until I died.

And so many times that's what I found myself wanting.

It hurt not have it.

That was why Clay wanted it so bad.

That was why he would have died last night if he wasn't brought back with me.

He would have died.

And I would have been able to do nothing to get him back.

I would have only been able to follow him.

For this reason, I smile at him, knowing he needs it.

And I needed to see the smile that he reciprocated back at me.

We were in this together now.

We were going to try or die together.

Sweet mother of Jesus.

Another angst chapter.

WHat the hell have I done to myself to where I can only write angst, slight fluff, and lime. (Haven't tried smut yet)

And what the fuck am i teaching my students?

Ah, well, i write what I feel and minimally what I have felt.

Love you all.

My wrist hurts from typing all day.

Peace for the rest of the day ✌️

Diosa, out.

1015 words