He was alive. He was alive he was alive he was alive he was alive he was alive was alive…
he didn’t feel alive. he felt like he was rotting from the inside out. he tried deep breaths and they made him more nauseous.
why wasn’t he alive. no matter how much he tried to convince himself he knew he wasn’t.
he was shaking. please please please. he couldn’t die in comedian’s house, he couldn’t do that to comedian.
he wouldn’t do that to comedian.
he stumbled about the hall. he looked unwell in his panic.
he was dead he was dead he was dead. was he dying? was he just almost dead? he was dying.
he wouldn’t die in comedian’s house.
he wanted to apologize but he couldn’t get himself to face comedian. he didn’t even know where he was.
im sorry im sorry im sorry im sorry im sorry
the words were mumbled beneath his breath. he didn’t know who he was talking to. he should leave, right?
that’s what he should do.
or what he meant to do before slamming his side into the wall. he groaned, and looked confusedly towards it. his head hurt. he was scared and confused.
courier? courier, are you okay?
comedian started walking upstairs, ignoring the burning sensation that remained whenever he walked too much.
she was just looking at some old photos right before this. it was filling her with a lot of bad memories to even glance at them- it gave him this sickening feeling in his chest and gut that made him unable to move and kept him in a place of anxiety and sick, sick fear that was such a bad place to be in.
looking at courier right now didn't replace the feeling in his gut- but brows lined in worry and he rushed to courier's side.
post-boy? what's wrong?
she was asking too many questions. please, please, please- please don't be dying- they couldn't have courier die- they wouldn't know what to do with themselves, they didn't want him to die.
