Work Text:
Everything is going too fast. The room is spinning.
It's 2 AM on the clock on his bedside. Meanwhile, he lays alone in bed. It's in the middle of October in Canada, it's freezing in his room. Yet his shirt is off, he's left with his pajama pants and the sports bra he dreaded wearing.
Music is playing from his open Chromebook, laying on the side of his bed. There's so much stuff on his bed, but he doesn't wanna get up and clean it. He'll do it tomorrow.
It sometimes feels like tomorrow may never come.
The light barely illuminates the room, otherwise it's complete darkness. His parents are asleep downstairs, and he's still up. He was so tired earlier, so why can't he sleep now?
There's a few quiet sobs as his hand grips at his chest. Like he's trying to rip it off his body. He wishes he could.
But that would hurt, wouldn't it? He doesn't want to hurt himself. At least not right now. Even though, truly, he did almost everyday by simply living another day.
The drawing app on his Chromebook is open yet the canvas remains blank.
He wants to draw. Anything. But nothing comes to mind. It's frustrating, in a way. More than one, actually.
Pinterest is out of options. Or his brain isn't fueled enough.
But he can't fall asleep. What's he supposed to do?
The room is only filled with Phoebe Bridgers' voice coming from his Chromebook as his tears drip down onto his own skin except of a canvas.
People would expect it to be colorful, bright. He's an artist, isn't he? Everything should be so bright in his mind.
But it isn't.
He sits up and rubs at his tired eyes, looks at the screen.
He closes the drawing app. Closes all remaining tabs on Google. Then, he closes the Chromebook itself and places it away on his night table with all the other stuff on it. He lays down again and looks at the pure darkness of his ceiling.
"I'm gonna fucking kill myself."
But he wasn't really going to.
He still had P.E on Monday.
... Fuck, maybe he really was going to.