whyamiwritingfics

[whyamiwritingfics]

Red

Summary - Red is his favorite color. He hates the color red. It's a sensitive dichotomy.

Word Count - 600

Warnings - Angst, Self Harm

A/N - Once again had some trouble formatting to tumblr for some reason. Hope it looks alright.

Read on AO3

Red is his favorite color. He hates the color red. It's a sensitive dichotomy. He could wax poetic sonnets about how much he loves it. He could fill notebooks with essays on how much he can't stand it.

It's his favorite color when he's watching it flow, finally feeling calm. It makes him feel lighter, his head quiet, the ever constant pressure sitting on his chest temporarily lifting, allowing him to finally feel like he can breathe.

It's the color he hates the most when reality starts to sink back in, the brief lull ending, the peace fleeting, and shame settling heavy in his gut.

It’s his favorite color when he feels like he can finally breathe again. When the tears are drying on his face and a blissful numbness is washing over him.

It’s his least favorite color when it drips and stains the towels. When he’s having to scrub it from the bathroom tiles and the numbness in his mind lingers longer than he’d like.

He loves not having to feel anything for a moment, but the relief never lasts. Sometimes the feeling stays, but he almost wishes it didn’t. It’s not a relief then. Sometimes it lasts too long, and instead of craving the red to stop feeling too much, he craves it just to feel anything at all.

Sometimes he’ll watch the red running down his skin with rapt attention, as if he can see his problems temporarily flowing out of his body with it. Other times he watches with a strange sense of detachment, as though the color has nothing to do with him, like he’s merely observing from the outside.

He’s not sure if he’d call himself suicidal. He’s not trying to die but if he did he’s not sure he’d be too upset over it. Either way, he likes to pretend that it doesn’t mean anything serious.

This is unhealthy. A voice in the back of his mind pleads with him to see the reality of it all.

It’s helping us. A different voice argues.

No, it’s destroying us. He disagrees with the voice and tries to pretend both don’t sound suspiciously like his own.

If he goes too long without it he can feel an itch under his skin, like he’s almost eager to seek it out again. He ignores the fact that sounds like something he heard when the school had a speaker come to talk about addiction. That’s not what this is. How could it be? Addiction is for things like drugs, or in his father’s case, drinking. Following in his footsteps would be the thing to call unhealthy. Compared to that, this isn’t a big deal.

That voice in the back of his head pipes up again to tell him how stupid that argument sounds. He dismisses it like usual.

So far, no one’s noticed. He’s terrified a day might come when the mask slips. It’s getting out of hand and he knows it, despite the effort he puts into forcing himself to believe otherwise. He’s scared he can’t hide it forever. He’s scared he might not want to keep hiding. If someone knows then he’ll have to stop. He doesn’t want to.

Deep down he knows that’s a lie. He’s starting to have a harder time denying the fact the voice in his mind is his own. He’s having a harder time stopping himself from admitting the voice is right. It’s not that he doesn’t want to stop, it’s that he’s not sure he can.

Blaine hates the color red, and he hates that he also loves it.

[whyamiwritingfics]

Today Is Different

Characters - Blaine Anderson, Kurt Hummel

Summary - Today is different because today would be his last.

Word Count - 1,150

Warnings - Angst, Suicidal Thoughts, References to Depression, References to Anxiety, Suicidal Ideation

A/N - I had a hell of a time trying to format this correctly for tumblr so I hope none of it looks funky.

Read on AO3

He was drowning. Despite being firmly on land, he could feel the water flooding his lungs, dark, murky water that burned his throat and stung his eyes. He couldn't remember ever not feeling like this.

He couldn't remember a time when it didn't feel like the weight of the ocean was pressing down on his chest, water pouring into his lungs, trying to suffocate him. But today was different.

Today was different because he'd finally made up his mind. Today was different because the untouched bottle of Zoloft in his drawer would finally be put to use.

The pills hadn't done anything except make him tired, made it feel like a dense fog had wrapped around his brain and trapped him inside. They made him not even feel human, but like what he imagined the zombies in the movie he’d watched the other night probably felt like, stumbling and confused. They'd only made him feel worse. But tonight, he'd decided they'd do something else.

If you were to ask him why he picked today, he wouldn’t have an answer. If you asked him why he was doing it at all, he wouldn’t be sure which answer to give you.

He thought that knowing that today was different, that today would be his last, would feel almost as crushing as the imaginary waves in his chest. But it wasn't. If anything it made getting out of bed easy for the first time in a long time. The roaring water that smashed against his ribcage was calm. His limbs didn’t feel like lead as he got dressed, and he swore he could see a flicker of a smile in his eyes as he stood in front of the mirror, brushing his teeth. He felt lighter and made sure to spend a little extra time on his hair that morning, wanting to look good in his peers’ last memories of him. He felt like what he thought he vaguely remembered happiness feeling like.

Today would be different because today would be his first good day in a while. He couldn't ask for a better last day.

Throughout the day, classes seemed easier, his loud mind finally quiet. His brain able to take in the information it was getting, working as it should for the first time in a while. At lunch, he found the smile on his face was genuine. He laughed at Wes' jokes and even told a few of his own. He thought the story Jeff told was funny. He wished every day could be like this, that every day could be different. Everything felt easy. Everything felt right. If every day was like this then he might finally understand why other people didn’t feel like he did, why other people weren’t in any rush to leave. If every day was like this, he’d understand what people meant when they described the world in beautiful colors instead of the muted hues he’d become accustomed to. For him, life was starting to dull more and more each day. If he stayed, he knew his world would eventually be nothing but black and white.

But today was different. Today the lost color seemed to seep back into his vision for a moment. A beautiful day to end on.

It was time for the Warblers' performance. One last number for old-time sake. If anyone felt the need to remember him, he hoped they would remember him like this. Remember him for the person he wished he could be.

His pace wasn't as quick as the others making their way to the common's room. He made sure to walk slower, taking everything in. He realized he'd never really done that before. Dalton was beautiful; a place he spent so much of his time in, and he’d never noticed how stunning it was until now. If he could appreciate it properly he might miss it.

He watched his classmates pass by and found himself wondering how long it would take for the news to spread tomorrow. He wondered how long it would take for everyone to know. How long would it be before someone got ahold of his parents? His dad had never really tried to get to know him after they rebuilt that car last summer. He’d realized he couldn’t make him into a version of a son he wanted, so maybe he wouldn’t even care. Why mourn someone who’s more or less a stranger? His mom would probably be a little sad over it. As distant as she was he knew she cared about her family. Still, if she cared so much she’d be home more wouldn’t she? It might hurt her, but only for a little while, nothing she couldn’t get over. What about his brother? He and Cooper hadn’t spoken in five years. He might not even remember he has a little brother. The Warblers might be the people that missed him, but he figured they’d soon realize they were better off. Things would be easier without him. If they missed him, it wouldn’t be for long. Good.

He pushed the thoughts aside; there was nothing to dwell on anymore. Today was the day.

He tried to speed up as he reached the stairs, realizing how bad it would look to be late for his last performance. Today is different, but he can’t be. How bad would it be if his friends' last memories of him were less than the perfect he wanted them to be?

The staircase was starting to clear out as the last of the students not in the common room made their way over. Damn, he should hurry, he didn't want to upset anyone on his last da-

"Excuse me, can I ask you a question? I'm new here."

He turned. The boy on the stairs wasn't in a Dalton uniform which made him doubt he was actually a student despite his words. He couldn’t help but wonder why he was really here.

But why did he care? And why did something in him scream that he knew this boy? Now he was curious.

"My name's Blaine."

"Kurt."

He didn't know this boy, Kurt, but he felt like he should. He wanted to at least.

He was gonna be late. He should probably use a shortcut. He should bring the boy with him. He seemed interested in the glee club, maybe he’d enjoy it. It wouldn’t hurt to have one more audience member for his final number.

Kurt's hand was warm in his own. It felt nice. He'd ask what he was really doing here later.

Maybe the number wouldn't be his last after all. The boy intrigued him. He didn’t want to leave without any answers. He wants to know who the boy next to him is. He wants to know why he feels like he already does.

Today is different, but now for a different reason.

[whyamiwritingfics]

decided to make a sideblog for my fics since i’m still getting comfortable sharing my writing again lol