TomTord/TordTom Oneshots and eddsworld art

Ignore Me

lemme just- *dumps random feelings and shit*
there we go—

Warning: Gore (or something), super long, (like, 3,200+ words)

(Tom's POV)

I talk too much, I think. The others don't seem to like it. When we would have conversations together, I'd try to shove my input in, just for it to go unnoticed. Then I'd try again, and be shushed by one of them because I talked too much. My fault for running my mouth off, I guess.

That's fine. I'm fine.

I've learned to just stay quiet. In the background. They don't need to hear me or know I'm there. I feel a bit left out, but that's my fault. Then the urge to just speak overpowers my desire to stay quiet. I try and talk, but realize that I've spoken too much, haven't I? It sounds nonsensical, I know. But everything I say is nonsensical, is it not?

They don't want me there, I think. They just keep me out of pity. I don't have anyone else to annoy with my voice, after all.

Sometimes I have things to rant about, but no one to rant to. Who would want to listen to the little attention whore for longer than 5 seconds? That's when I stay quiet. I could be roaring, crying, and wailing inside my mind while the others talk casually. And I couldn't let it out. It would annoy them after all. I'd probably just be doing it for attention, I don't have any mental problems after all.

I'm going too fast, huh? I'm speaking too much again. There are just so many words and yells and screams and screeches echoing that I just need to let out because they've been trapped for too long but the only people that would listen are the shadows and that would be sad don't you think?

That sounds edgy.

I sigh, staring at the messily scrawled words that have been a bit smeared from my hoodie sleeve. I click my royal purple pen close. I shut my journal. That's enough writing for today.

I think I wrote 'I think' too much.
...
Whatever.

I leave the bullet journal on my desk, my elegant journaling pens beside it. My friends don't know I like to write. They don't have to. I don't tell them.

I make my way out of my melancholy room, down the hall and into the kitchen where I heard voices talking excitedly. I enter swiftly and silently, passing by the trio at the table. Not one acknowledges I'm there. That's fine. I'm fine.

I open up the fridge and grab one of the few remaining bottles of Smirnoff. My friends have yet to notice me. Oh, I'm so narcissistic. Begging for attention without even begging. Asking for them even when I don't make an effort to get them.

I shut the refrigerator as quiet as I can. They don't need to know I was here at all.

I slip out of the kitchen and back into the comforts of my room. The dark blue envelopes me, and I immediately feel at home. I pop open the bottle and take a sip. The cold liquid slides down my throat, leaving a slight burning sensation in the back. A sigh of relief escapes me.

I take a few more sips and go back to my desk. I place the quarter-empty bottle beside me on the ground. I pick up a crimson pen and click it open. I start to write.

What I wrote didn't make any sense before. None of this does, of course. It's hard to understand. I don't even understand.

From what I get from myself:
I wish others would pay some attention to me.
But at the same time, I don't want them to feel obliged to do so.
So I opt for me becoming like a speck of dust on the wall. Forgettable. Easily able to be flicked away.