#cryingromansanders

(Now including drawn picture also made by me ( ´•̥̥̥ω•̥̥̥` ))

Me trying to write stories ROMAN SANDERS EDITION

1193 words and counting. Trigger-Warning slight alluding to self-harm +negative thoughts.

That wasn’t that bad Roman tried to convince himself. He’d been through way worse right . . .? Wait was that considered a good thing. He brought his hands to his head. It had begun agonizingly pounding earlier in the day and he could feel the pressure in his ears akin to something like a buzzing sound had begun making its presence known. He felt sluggish and lethargicness crept upon him. Surely they hadn’t meant it that way. Not like their intend was hurting him. So why did he feel so . . so hurt. It was like a piece inside of him was broken off. The piece that carried all his confidence. His admittedly now feeling false bravery. The bravado that helped him conquer his less then awesome feelings. He heard creaking footsteps up the stairs and some soft whispered goodnights.

The mind palace fell empty on sound as its residents started heading to their respective beds. I should probably get some shut eye too thought Roman as he looked around his room. He hadn’t had the time or to be honest motivation to clean it up for a while now. His energy seemed to have wounded down a lot lately. He would put it down to the amount of videos they had been making. But truthfully he wasn’t very much present in them at all let alone having his ideas represented as anything less than annoying. He twirled his messy hair in between his fingers, twiddling his thumbs while rocking back and forth a bit. The silence that now protruded the vacant mind surroundings made the whining in his ears stand out all the more. He grabbed his temple and began rubbing circles on his forehead. He didn’t want things to be this way. It all felt so complicated. And like his incompetence was already making everybody uncomfortable enough. Without highlighting all his other flaws. Normally he loved the spotlight but now it made him itch.

The thought alone made him have trouble breathing. He should be more put together. How could he dream of having a grand live on the stage if he couldn’t even stand a meager spotlight. He felt woozy had his room always been this of kilter, this . . dizzying. His vision blurred had he been crying this whole time. How long . . . he tried wiping away his tears as new ones grew in their places. The clock face on his nightstand was barely legible through mist his eyes produced. It read 02:10 AM. Had he really been rummaging through his hair and been sat thinking here for this long. SHIT- Logan had a schedule he wanted to keep and he didn’t want to be tired and late for the morning meetings. Ouch . . .his head stung if it wasn’t for him feeling immobile he would have moved to pick up some painkillers for his worsening headache. Then again he didn’t wanna wake up the others by making too much sound going to find it in the cabinets below. He’d been warned before about being too noisy and off-putting when trying to practice his favorite musical songs. Keep it down Logan had yelled. Yeah will you can it with your sappy bullshit his mustachy brother had added. He’d tried whisper singing ever since. It didn’t have that much flare to it, but if it made them happier he’d be glad to be of their backs.

The inside of his head felt as if someone had knocked his brain around quite a few times. Cut all its supports out and the remaining short-circuiting heap had been set on fire as some sort of twisted fun added bonus. He sniffled rubbing the underside of his nose and eye sockets. He probably deserved it. The way he’d been performing lately was about as garbage as he felt. The clock face blinked 03:00 AM it read. No, no NO . . . this had to stop. He wasn’t even supposed to stay up again. He was exhausted it took longer than he wanted to admit to come up with his sup-par ideas as it was. He didn’t need to create more problems for himself and everyone around him. He slammed down his fist against his carpet and then recoiled in shock as he remembered he shouldn’t produce sounds this late into the night. Frustrated he dug his nails into his palm and bit on his knuckles as he closed his arms around himself. His knees seemed to tremble a bit, he noticed as he looked down. Was this the self-soothing Virgil had talked about. It didn’t seem that soothing to him.

He looked at his fingers they were cold and absent of colour apart from the stained ink and the numerous papercuts on them. He’d really been trying. It might have looked easy from the outside but ‘’It was all a Ruse’’. As Deceit would so say. More and more often he felt that it was all just too much and that balancing it was getting more impossible as it became harder to smile to himself in the mirror. What had been the last time he’d truly felt accomplished. Like he got his stuff together or at least made it look presentable enough to fool everyone. His heavy eyelids started to droop over his glossy dry red tear stained eyes until they shot up to look at his calendar.

Crap.

He’d forgot. He was so busy being fucking sorry for himself that he’d missed the big red circled due date of the upcoming script. If something had to pull him over the edge this was it he’d reached his limits. And felt surrounded. He started drawing panicked breaths heaving over on himself. He didn’t know what pounded harder his head or his chest. They were gonna be so mad at him or worse they'd be staring on in drooping disappointment as he would stand there ashamed in the corner , uneasy shuffling his feet. Patton would throw out a halfhearted it’s okay kiddo. With Thomas sighing looking away as Logan crumpled his paper up and muttered something about no respect for a proper schedule in the background, again having to adjust each and every detail in his already busily packed important planning scheme. If this was only a mild version of a so called panic attack that he’d had explained to him by Virgil. He couldn’t imagine what a full blown one must have actually felt like. He felt so sorry for the dude. How could he ever manage to put on any sense of composure if he had to have these on an at least a monthly basis. the walls felt like the were eerily closing in on him. He wanted to scream to cry out for help but only a meekly weak sob would be forced out of his throat that as the shadows in the corners of his narrowed eyes started to crop up and he lost his already faltering vision to the black surrounding his corneas. His body sunk to the ground like a melted puddle.