Emo Trinity x Reader (Book 2)

Brendon Urie x Reader - A Bad Day

Requested on Tumblr
Warnings: description of depression
Word count: 1 486
A/N: So if anyone is wondering why it takes me centuries to write anything... it's an open secret I have severe depression. So I'm basically drawing my description in this story from my own experience from over the last two years... I also know some writers refuse to write mentally ill readers because they don't want to romanticize mental illness (which I appreciate), but I for one try to make it clear that depression/anxiety/eating disorders etc. are nothing cool and fun, and I also know how being ill, you sometimes just wish to read something, where the main character is as down as you are, and still is being cared for, is loved, and will eventually find happiness, because often you feel like you can't find it in real life, so you cling onto these stories until you actually feel better. And this is the reason I will continue writing stories with a mentally ill reader. I take criticism for that, but not for my portrayal of panic/anxiety and depression, because when writing these, I use my own experience, and while I mainly write for you, the reader, I also write for myself to deal with stuff. If that offends you, I'm sorry, but that won't change anything. I hope all of you had a great weekend xo

You had not even opened your eyes, and you already wished to start the day over. A heavy weight had settled on your chest, making breathing hard, and your stomach twisted into tight knots. You shakily took a breath and tried to sit up, but your body was like paralyzed, not willing to bend to your command. You took another breath and forced open your eyes, staring at the white ceiling. You tried to clear your mind, forget about the swirl of darkness that clouded your perception of reality and reached for your mobile. You saw there were several new messages from your boyfriend Brendon, but you ignored them. Something inside you was starting to feel sick at the thought of him. Not him as a person, more of the fact that he had to deal with someone like you.

You finally sat up and swung your legs over the edge of the bed, standing up slowly. Every motion seemed slowed down, and as the blanket fell away from your legs, and slipped partially onto the floor, you did not bother to pick it up, instead you shuffled to the bathroom, suddenly overwhelmed with the desire of a warm shower. You clawed your pajama off of your body, unable to take a look into the mirror over the bathroom sink, and climbed into the shower. The cold water that shot out of the shower head made you jump against the equally cold wall where you waited impatiently until the water had reached a more comfortable temperature, all while the rushing sound of thousand droplets roared in your ears until you feared you would go deaf. Who would care about that anyway?

You spent a lot of time just standing in the shower like this, not really thinking, not actively, but passive thoughts chased each other behind your forehead. You were all too familiar with the paralyzing feeling of a depressive episode. You had had depression for a while now, and the last weeks had been okay, maybe not exactly great, or even good, but you had been able to care for yourself and had even managed the daily chores in the house, but today was bad, very, very bad.

The water had long turned cold when you climbed out of the shower, and wrapped yourself in the fluffy towel, that you could not appreciate, no matter how hard you tried. And then you stood on the bathmat in front of the sink, and stared at your reflection in the clouded mirror, just looked at yourself, at the way your lips were formed, the way your iris had a few little, dark spots, the way cold drops of water ran into your eyebrows.

You had been standing there for what felt like hours, when suddenly the clicking of the front door pulled you out of your trance.

"(Y/n)," the well-known voice of Brendon echoed through the flat.

You tightened the towel around your body, and poked your head out of the door.

"What are you doing here," you asked tiredly.