okay so this is just some vent writing i did. it’s kinda dark, warnings for anxiety, depression, suicidal thoughts. it’s kinda rhack? but not exactly, more like flavor icing to the whole thing. most of it is under a read more even though its not that long. enjoy i guess
there’s a whisper of a movement, a soft sort of sighing of cloth brushing against skin, and he can feel something reaching for him, dark hands aiming for his throat. he wants to scream, wants to cry and fight and run but all he can do is lay there helplessly, frozen in something like terror.
the dark presses in, the light seeping, leeching out of the corners of the room, the quiet whoosh of traffic muffled to inaudible. he can’t breathe he’s suffocating as he lays limp in bed and the monster from his closet reaches for the pale flesh of his throat. im going to die here, he thinks, fingers twisting in dark sheets, im going to die here and i dont want to why cant i breathe
and so there he lays for the rest of the night, convinced he’s going to die, convinced that something is coming for him any moment, convinced convinced convinced til the sun barely peeks through his window. and still he lays there til its rays slip over the sil and creep across the floor and gently fall across his face, intangible fingers of warmth ghosting over a cheek bone, the bridge of his nose, obscured by strands of hair, blinding an eye. he lays there, wishing the sounds of his boyfriend moving around the house were there to comfort him. but there was nothing but silence, the beating of his heart and his blood rushing in his ears.
eventually, somehow, there’s a release, a flipped switch, and he can breathe again, he can move again. with the depression of his chest, his arm moves, dragging a hand down his face. there’s a twinge of pain in his right shoulder, an echoing, faint but stinging. He glances down, imagining the sight that would greet his eyes if it was three years ago.
there would be pale flesh, interrupted by colourful tattoos on the upper arm, a dead tree surrounded by a field of flowers, the lower part displaying two snakes coiled around his arm, ever present guardians embedded into his skin with ink and needle and pain.
but there’s nothing; just his shoulder, which is still hurting faintly, and the empty space where his arm should be. it upsets him sometimes. why was he the one to get hurt? why not jack, or vaughn or or or—but no, he doesn’t mean it…usually. he’s grown used to the absence now, can function and go about his life in the new normal he’s created. one in which he and jack are together; together and happy, powerful, rich. it’s an ideal life, really. and for the most part rhys loves it, enjoys the power and fame, the wealth, the good sex. he wants for nothing and it’s all he could ever dream of.
and yet…he hates it too. it’s confining, it’s a chain, it’s boring and predictable. It’s lonely.
rhys slips out of bed, feet hitting the soft carpet under the bed,, toes curling as he stares out the window, perched on the edge of the bed. He has work he needs to do, but all he can do is sit there, goosebumps rising on his skin in the chill of the empty room, watching the cars pass by the iron gate, people walking, laughing, living. he’s not aware of standing, striding slowly over to the window, and slipping it open. he’s on the third story, the house larger than normal, with twelve foot rooms instead of the usual ten. it’s more of a difference than most think. he’s not aware of leaning out the window, lone arm clutching the sil as he contemplates the ground from his position.
he leans further out, fingers starting to slip. he knows somewhere, distantly in his mind, that if he continues, he’ll fall, probably break his neck, his spine, might kill himself if he’s not careful. but he really can’t find it in himself to care.
he slips further, fingers on the outside edge, barely hanging, on his tip toes as he imagines what the wind will sound like as he falls.
but then there’s a thud and a strangled yell, and suddenly there are arms wrapped around his middle and he’s being pulled back, pressed into a warm chest. all rhys can do is blink and stare at his outstretched hand, somehow five feet away from where he once had stood.
“jesus christ rhys! what the hell were you thinking?”
Oh, he thinks blankly, it’s jack.
his boyfriend releases him, but only so he can turn the other around and pull him back into a hug, face buried in soft brown hair, not yet gelled back for the day.
“hi.”
jack stiffens, pulling back a little and staring at rhys incredulously. “hi? hi? rhys, what the fuck? you almost fell! do you have a death wish or somethin’, pumpkin?” jack’s eyes are watery, hair mussed, mouth tight. rhys wonders why.
“I’unno,” he says, voice monotone.
jack just pulls him back into a hug, hands shaking as they clench rhys’ shirt in between large fingers.
