title i chose:
hum hallelujah
hook:
sometimes we take chances, sometimes we take pills
prologue i wrote:
X lay on his bed in the dead night, his gaze upon his white ceiling. his body was spread eagle, and his cheeks were wet with tears as his mind replayed his most recent conversation.
"the first step to recovery is admitting you need help!" his best friend, Y, had said, the sun overhead casting shadows across her face.
he hated that. so much. he hated it more than he hated himself.
he didn't need recovery. he didn't need to recover from anything. hurt people needed recovery. and X definitely did not need help. crazy people needed help.
he wasn't crazy.
he just heard voices. sure those voices weren't the nicest, but what they said was true.
X did not need help. he did not need help.
he did not need a fucking psychiatrist.
he did not.
-
X always meant well. it just never turned out the way he intended.
when he would reach down to grab someone's book they dropped, and he would trip someone in the process.
when he would grab a leaf out another students' hair, and get his ring stuck.
when he would offer someone who was shivering his hoodie, only to get cold himself.
but that was just on the physical level; he was socially awkward and slummed back in a corner whenever possible.
on the mental level, he was even clumsier.
when he offered condolences at a funeral, he would accidentally slip out a phrase with mixed meaning. "i mean, it could be worse . . ."
when he helped people calm down from panic attacks, he'd accidentally cause them another one or cause them to become even more shaken.
when he would help those with adhd, he'd accidentally cause a bigger distraction.
but above all, he always meant well for himself, but always ended up hurting himself more.
when he would have a headache, he'd take an extra advil.
when he would get a cold, he would hold off taking antibiotics until the last two days, where he would take large doses.
when he would be having a panic attack, he wouldn't contact anyone in fear of interrupting them.
when he would stare at the water as he stood on a bridge, he would always stop himself from climbing, but he would always promise himself he would one day.
X refused to let himself get better, but that was the problem. he didn't see himself as someone who needed to get better.
-
X was a writer.
he wrote what he felt, what he was told by his voices, and everything in-between. he connected lines and stanzas with such a flow that people speaking couldn't beat it.
X was also a singer.
he sang what he wrote, the emotion that was found deep within his heart, mind, and soul poured out through the words. he wrote and sang what he — and many others around the world — felt better than they could ever speak it.
X was an underground artist with underground artist friends and an underground artist idols. most people in the scene were either rappers or pop singers, but X didn't fit that characteristic either. he sang indie ballads.
once again,
the voices told X he didn't belong.
background/my thoughts on it:
this was based off of hum hallelujah by fall out boy. as i've said before, stuff like this shouldn't be romanticized. i'm only including this because i'm putting ALL of my drafts in here. if you choose to write about this, please be cautious
YOU ARE READING
story ideas that you guys can use
Fanfictiona few of you wanted the ideas that i won't use, so here they are!
