#mostly depression

most recent injury dredges up a sputtered cough that tastes like iron, or acid. he had thought about throwing up, but somewhere between blacking out, all he’d managed was a ragged heaving of his ribs. but there are so many things broken, and any venom he had is subdued by now. stupidly, he takes inventory; flexes what he can of his hand, nauseated when only a few fingers twitch. he isn’t dead yet, but he’d been been given the terms up-front.

“i-i’m sorry. am i supposed to make this easier for you?” he strains this through his aching teeth, can manage a small leer upward. “you’re all about... the fucking games, man. y-you figure it out.” and his voice breaks. and again, he tries not to look at the thing behind the camera. he tries not to look at evan’s face, at habitnotevanhabitnotevanmonsternotevan. but he knows that, like he knows left and right, and his phone number. like he knows evan’s favourite movies and his takeout orders and that he’d been the player two to evan’s player one since they were ten. don’t fucking cry. he doesn’t ultimately succeed in this endeavour, keeps forehead pressed to the blood-slicked floorboards like it will ground him. why didn’t you pay attention? why didn't you put it together?

Tell these idiots that one day they’re going to be celebrating ten years of marriage before they’re even 35

I dare you