Take A Walk With Me (One-Shots and More)

we're all INNocEnt, my SAvior

I don't even know what to call this.

Holy shit I'm scaring myself.

In other words, proceed with caution.

····

Defeated.

After so many years, I'm defeated.

I've been fighting the pain for the longest time, dodging the shadows and climbing out of the abyss. He helped, of course, offering a hand, the only light in the darkness of crevice. His smile was my sun, these days.

But it wasn't enough.

Just because that glowing ball of energy, millions of miles away, remains in the sky, doesn't mean the plants have to grow. Sometimes, too much isn't any good in the long run.

That's what Mitch is to me.

In small doses, he lets me forget all of the problems of the world, like heroine or alcohol would. However, the more often and the longer the exposure, the more negative the results.

I couldn't have him, however much I may want him.

It wasn't that he was homophobic, or even that he was straight (though that may be an issue in its own). It was the fact that despite the fangirls, if it were ever to be cannon, our channels would plummet. I made so many people happy, but at the same time, they were concerned for me - and I was scared that they would find me out.

It was simple, I guess. Make videos, smile for the camera, hide the mental scars. The physical scars weren't hard to cover up, so long as they kept their "scratched-at mosquito bite/acne" title. Mitch used to question it all the time, constantly worried, but now...

It almost seemed as if he didn't care.

To loop it back to our channels, I could say that maybe I was exaggerating - but, I knew I wasn't, and never had been. If the pressure of a fantasy becoming real was hard enough for me, how would they fare...?

Cue the heavy sigh, the laugh track that murmurs, "Isn't that a shame?"

So, yes, I'm defeated.

I, the one known for his optimism and clever jokes, was defeated.

Beat down, forced to cry, forced to snap.

Why?

Because I hid behind a mask.

Because I never showed my scars.

Because I never seeked help.

Because I tried to help others, and more than likely failed.

Because I am me.

Jerome Robert Aceti.

····

A sigh, slipping off the Canadian's lips. Fingers, trailing over the paper. Teeth, clenching onto the pen as it slipped, vertices catching between.

"Isn't that a shame...?"

Ink, spilling down the paper. A figure, smiling at him. Blotches, making it frown. His own tearstains, bringing it to life.

"He isn't real, Mitch."

A hand, clamped on his shoulder. A ringing, echoing throughout his head.

"Stop, sir, please stop... You're making yourself sick!"

It's the same old, same old.

The Canadian man smiled, fierceness lighting up his eyes. A woman, reflected. Her posture, slipping. Her face, sliding down and mingling. She turns, the figure from his dreams.

"I'm Mitch," he hisses.

The figure, dropping and disappearing.

"I'm your creator!" he screams, slamming the paper wHEre he wrote his

the dream's

thoughts. Everything, storming

faLling, falling

together. His mind, a Pit of decay and Morbid

noticE, please, notice--

····

Defeated.

After so many years, I am defeated.