"things won’t always hurt this bad." 4 vincent uwu
first comes a gentle kindling of rage, an old, worn-out emotion that walks behind him down each road, follows every step. it’s elusive, more often than not. both there and nowhere to be seen. it senses fear, chuckles with its repulsive voice, reminiscing that of a dying hyena’s last frenzied whimper. apathetic anger, blunt ache pulsating deep within. ( * i’m afraid of death. i’m afraid that, if i die, my chest will crack open and all the blight will spill out, a grotesque display of rot and blood. will they, then, see what’s spewing inside? ) vincent inhales, harshly, as if his throat has closed up completely. closes his eyes, curls his hands into tiny, powerless fists. they tremble, slightly so --- over his lap, his picture-perfect, unblemished clothes.
then comes numbness. he seeks comfort in that sensation of nothingness, a deep, well-nigh endless gap in existence where a sea used to be, should be: sea of kindness, of love, of anything beyond pain. that vacancy is just a curtain shrouding the festering wound of his soul, yes. but as long as it’s there, the agony can be ignored. forgotten. regardless of its yellowed out, serrated teeth, gnawing at him at its most cruel, most ruthless... regardless of its hushed whispers, often falling into desperate laughter, spelling out things most vile. ‘ you have no way of knowing. ’ he responds, looking her in the eyes. his own are hollowed out, blank. their shine has been long since buried. ‘ comfort means little to me. i’m not your friend, and you’re not mine. leave me alone. ’
