Anonymous / @pierced-morals said ⬎
❝ I’m actually losing my mind. But I guess that’s… nothing new. ❞ (@pierced-morals / for Dusty)
“You’ve been losing your mind since we were teenagers, Donnie.” words spoken as they stubbed their cigarette out, they were only half meant as a joke. The secrets that weighed heavy between the duo spoke volumes to Donald’s state of mind over the years - they had said it before, and would say it time and time again.
Donald Pierce needed therapy.
But, alas, it would seem they had passed that bridge a few hundred miles back, so they were going to have to work with what they had, which was…
“Why’re we losin’ our mind today, though?”
God in heaven please don’t let it be another corpse
(It was almost definitely another corpse, wasn’t it)
❝ Tell me somethin' I don't already know, baby. ❞ No attempts were made at denying it, not this many years into the chaos of their lives. For all the half-teasing tone that Dusty had decided to grace the conversation with, it was true: his mental health had been one downward spiral after another, for decades, and there wasn't any 'stop sign' in sight.
"I'll go to therapy after the military."
So much for that. His days of serving had flown by, the memories a blur of training and bloody mouths, and the years after that... Well, Donald had never made time for therapy in the Hellfire Club, and now?
What filthy Reaver went to fucking therapy — ?
( And what mutant could risk being that honest anywhere? )
His jaw set at the thought, lips twisting with disgust for a beat before the expression was forced away. Blue gaze downcast, settled on the latest scuff on his boots. He was losing it, that was a fact, but much the same? Dusty didn't know enough, couldn't know enough, for him to explain why.
❝ Christ... Jus' another corpse, honey. Nothin' that'll matter in a week. ❞
Forcibly casual wording, left pointedly vague, to cover up the genuine dangers of his life. To disguise everything that he'd actually done. In hopes that they wouldn't notice the lack of sadistic satisfaction, wouldn't notice the nausea as it bubbled back to the surface.
He'd barely cared about corpses when he was an overprotective teenager, getting a little too angry and literally melting their ex's throat.
So he sure in God's name couldn't explain why that person, decades later, would've been bothered by having more blood on his hands.
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