Something More Original ~ Multiship one shot book

Desert song ~ Ryden

Posted on: 05/07/19

Genre: Angst

Tw: depression, suicidal thoughts (i know, it's getting boring)

Song(s): desert song, my chemical romance
Goner, twenty one pilots
Stay away from my friends, pierce the veil.

A/n: this used to be the joshler one shot i never published (aka goner. I didn't publish it because it was too personal but then i decided fuck it) but you wanted ryden, so here it is. enjoy. (Unedited)

~~~

I stare up at my ceiling blankly, waiting for my alarm to go off, signaling that it's time for me to wake up.

I feel trapped. Everything in this room is suffocating, from the white celing to the yellow walls. Even the bed feels suffocating, and yet, I can't seem to tear myself out of it.

I wipe my tear stained cheeks with the back of my hand, even though I don't really have tears to wipe anymore, since the last time I cried was hours ago and they already dried out. It's more an habit, really.

It's getting bad again. Countless sleepless nights, school days wasted away lost in my own thoughts, fighting back tears at every second. Afternoons spent sleeping away the pain. Skipping meals, and sometimes the thought of dying crosses my mind once or twice or maybe ten times a day.

I'm fine.

My alarm goes off, and I turn it off quickly, the piercing noise way too loud for the early hours of the morning.

Six am.

I roll out of bed, and stand on my shaking legs, my knees threatening to give up underneath my weight at any moment now.

I'm fine.

I stumble into the bathroom, the house eerily quiet. I'm alone, my parents are already at work.

I look at myself in the mirror. My reflection is way too familiar. Bloodshot eyes, the brown contrasting strongly with my grey tinted skin. My hair is greasy, matted with sweat and it hangs limply on my head, its once wavy texture lost to lack of proper care.

Ugly is the only word on my mind.

Ugly.

I wash my hands, and go into the kitchen.

I pour myself a bowl of cereal, and I down it quickly, even though i'm not hungry and the soggy food tastes like cardboard and the milk is way too cold.

I once loved breakfast. I loved chatting with my mother while she made breakfast for me- well, a way younger version of me -and herself and we'd watch morning cartoons for ten minutes before getting ready for the day.

Now I eat alone in a dimly lit kitchen.

She doesn't care anymore. They stopped caring as I started growing up and they realized I'm not the perfect son they want.

I'm fine.

Six fifteen.

I go into my room, and I get dressed. Black skinny jeans, black shirt, black, oversized hoodie. Like every single day of the past months. I put on my heavy boots- they're not warm enough for the cold weather and the snow outside but I don't care -and tug on some bracelets to cover up my wrists.

I feel dizzy and nauseous just from thinking about myself.

I can't take this anymore.

I'm tired.

I'm fine.

Six twenty five.

I go into the bathroom again, and finish getting ready. Every action feels like a chore. My movements slow and mechanical. I've done enough times that I don't need to think anymore.