What's The Price Of My Life?

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Afternoon, Friends.
Heavy chapter today since I've taken a few months off since I've in all honesty I've been at my all time worst.

I see no point in a trigger warning as this is all just one massive suicide vent that incudes self harm, eating disorders (Bulimia, anorexia) and trauma.
All I'm going to say is, don't read if you're struggling or are sensitive to anything around the topic of sh and suicide. Thanks, read the end if you want an update.

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Brown dull eyes gazed at the grey scale world he seemed trapped in. Ever since being revived he took note of how his body felt like it wasn't his. He was merely a dead soul in his skin, somehow still alive when the blood was clearly shed that day. The wound on his chest that was once ripped open by the sword he went to war with. The sword that he forced into his father's hand to only be impaled deep into his skin, ripping open the yellow sweater then the skin before leaving through the other side of his chest.

Wilbur felt his chest tighten as he recalled the feeling of the swords inpact on his body. He shut his eyes, breathing heavily before sitting up. His hands trailed up his own sweater before he gripped onto it, his hand was right above where the now large scar was painted across his chest.

The mattress on the floor that ended up being his residence of sleep was uncomfortable as always, his back ached with a low grumble escaping his lips. As he sat up his eyes made their way towards the dim light that entered through the window of the disgustingly grotesque brittle van which he disappointingly had the 'pleasure' to name his home.
The way he looked at the window and estimated the time being around eight in the afternoon showed he was used to this routine of waking up so late in the day.

Cold hands slithered up to cup his cheeks before moving to rub his eyes. "Fuck..." His hands rubbed his eyes as a low groan that progressively got louder had passed his lips, everything felt out of place, as always. Looking to his left he reached for the pills he took to make him feel more alive, he grabbed a few carelessly without seeing how many he grabbed and just took them.

Without his own consent he stood up, his body felt like he was in space, he had little to no control over these movements. He was just as incompetent as a new born baby dear.
He forced himself to go to the dirty small bleak bathroom that had a few stray needles on the floor along with dirty razor blades that either had rust, blood or a white substance on them.
Infact, that wasn't the only place blood or the white power was in the bathroom, let alone the van.
Wilbur wasn't a druggie, or at least he said he wasn't but the state of the van showed a different story, one he tried to forget, or...just ignore. He was slightly more focused on the scent of puke that filled the air whenever he entered the bathroom recently. He grimaced at the thought of what happened last night, him bending down on the floor, his head leaned over the the toilet bowl with his hair brushed back by his hands. Two fingers reached down his throat forcing a few gags that soon was followed by that awful highly acidic concoction. With a simple head shake he pushed the thought away.

His hands gripped the cool marble of the sink, he rubbed his face then looked towards the cracked mirror seeing his own disappointment of a body. His skin was a sickly pale, making the already alarming eye bags stand out more. He lifted up his unwashed yellow sweater to show his awfully skinny frame. His hip bones stuck out along with his ribs. He tugged back down his sweater seeming distressed by the sight of himself. Broken eyes met the raw reflection of how he viewed himself. He felt sickened.
His hands went to the once fluffy curly hair which was now just messy uncleaned curls that looked more like a birds nest than anything. Once his fingers were nestled in the roots he vigorously ruffled his hair up trying to make it look at least some what presentable, yet, it added nothing but a slight poof to the thick greasy curls.

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