#but now i'm falling behind i'm just a hollow husk of who i used to be

[noxtivagus]

i'm sorry

[cheesit-notes]

Widowed Ghost

Ghost goes through the stages of grief... but only 4.

tags: hurt/virtually no comfort, throwing up, implied ghost didnt eat, or sleep, or take care of himself, 5 stages of grief, reader died, (first time) angst teehee

a/n: writing this made me feel better teehee. anywho, i love reader deaths (love u readers ♡)

widowed Ghost who cannot bring himself to cry when he hears the news. allowed to see you, or at least the hollow husk of you, he’ll glance at the mangled burned body that was once yours with a thousand thoughts yet no words to say. he’ll turn away, unable to face the reality.

for the week leading to your funeral, Ghost cannot, and perhaps purposely does not, process your death. he goes on with life as he usually would. but there are a few moments where he'll call out your name, intending to show you something, talk to you, or just because he wanted your attention. and those moments kill him inside. the silence, the lack of a response, the lack of you, kills him. for a few seconds to minutes at a time, he faces the reality that you're gone. for better or worse, his mind quickly convinces him you're simply busy. and he'll foolheartedly believe it. 

Ghost is silent the day of your funeral. he's forced to face the reality that you are gone; not just for a few seconds or moments at a time, but indefinitely. pitiful glances from empathetic faces and softly muttered 'I'm sorry's feel suffocating. he can't- doesn't want to believe it. you, in that god awful box? it can't be true. as cruel as it would be, he wishes this was all some sick joke.

blurred memories of being driven home, walking inside his house, and mindlessly walking into your once shared bedroom. and as he sits on the edge of the bed, it hits him. the cold, harsh reality hits him like a truck. you were gone. and there was nothing he could do about it. he hated this feeling. he hated feeling like a helpless little boy at the mercy of his heartless father; unable to do anything.

tears threaten to fall, his eyes burning to hold them back as he chokes on air. he hasn't cried in so long. always feeling like his problems didn't matter enough to cry. the feeling, it's nauseating. he feels like he's going to throw up.

he stumbles over to the bathroom sink because he knows you aren’t fond of cleaning up vomit after he got too drunk once. he never got that drunk again. he throws up the bits of food he forced himself to eat earlier because you were always worried about the lack of food he used eat. he didn’t want to worry you. and he looks at himself, and thinks he looks pathetic. pale, unkept, dirty, and he believes he's so undeserving of you; this is why you left him. that you left this world behind, left him behind, because he wasn’t enough to keep you here.

he’s mad at you for leaving him, and he’s mad at himself for being so.. him. and god, he thinks if anything was different about him, maybe you’d stay. doesn’t matter to him if you had no say in your own death, all that mattered was that you weren’t here now. reason had no place in a man blinded by pure fury. all he could think about was how unfair it was that you left him, and how he wasn’t enough to have you stay. maybe, he thought, if he was better, if he was anything else than the pathetic excuse of a man, maybe then you’d care a little more and be alive.

the blinded rage continues for hours. it began with thoughts of hatred he had towards you, himself, everything, but slowly began getting physical. he was never taught to use his words to express his feelings so they came out in actions. holding back tears he didn’t know he had, he took his rage out on anything that couldn’t fight back. a table flipped over and broken, chairs laid on their sides, everything pushed and shoved over leaving him standing in the empty space he created.

there’s no dreadful feeling like what he felt standing in the middle of the mess he made. he felt like his father; taking his anger out on things that couldn’t fight back. the arguable difference was the things Ghost took his anger out on wasn’t alive, but what difference did that truly make? perhaps if he had a kid, he would be his father’s replica. and he feared such a thought. with a heavy heart, he slowly put everything back where it once was, because you wouldn’t like the place being a pigsty.

he hates himself for this but for moments at a time, he’s convinced that it’s better you’re gone. he’ll never have to hear you nagging him to eat more, clean up after himself, go take a shower, take a break; never again. he’ll never be woken up by your laughs because you stayed awake, watching videos, for him to sleep. he’ll never be interrupted in anything again.

but who was he kidding? he misses it badly.

he misses hearing you tell him to eat more, threatening to force feed him if you caught him eating less. he misses you shoving him into the bathroom and yelling at him to shower because he stunk and you couldn’t stand the fact he just didn’t take care of his hygiene. he misses you forcibly taking him away from his work; the cruddy attempts of kidnapping him away from base and the way he’d begrudgingly play along. he misses you reassuring him that he could sleep, that you’d keep watch. he misses being woken up by your barely audible laughs, and how you frantically apologized for waking him. he misses resting his head on yours while the two of you stayed awake watching anything. he misses having someone who cared enough about him to do all that and more. 

he misses you.