a/n // so for some reason all my petericks get so many reads??????? thx but like?? this book may as well be peterick oneshots tbh there's barely any non peterick ones??? also pls read the previous oneshot i actually really adored that one ok f ight m e
this au is inspired by the blue neighborhood album by troye sivan. it's so good srsly
big warning for suicidal thoughts + an almost attempt later on!! nothing is graphic buuut if it triggers you then please read with caution!!
fun fact - the working title for this was "the heart rate of your mom's dick" cause throam amirite
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April 22nd, 2012
There is rain.
I rake my bangs back from my forehead; the water fogs up my glasses, and makes my hair stick to my face and neck, and I hope to God the bleach isn't starting to run. Does bleach run in water? He said hair dye does. Fuck what He says, though. He also said He liked you. He is a fucking liar.
My lips purse around the cigarette my shaky hands force out of my back pocket; do cigarettes contribute to weight gain? Can you get fatter if you smoke? I reminded myself to Google it later; my hands are desperate for nicotine, for something bittersweet in my lungs. I nearly burn my thumbs flicking on my lighter, because the cold and the rain and the fucking nerves are making my hands shake. It's His fault. He bumps into my life and changes everything, makes me into someone I'm not, and then leaves because He's found someone prettier, younger and a lot better off both through emotions and riches - He leaves unscathed, whereas I get left with more than a few bad habits and a lot of hate churning in my gut, too many words left unsaid when they should've been screamed.
Kids like Him should be burning in Hell.
My cheeks hollow as I inhale the smoke, before exhaling it lazily, watching as it dances in the sky or some shit - I'm not a fucking poet. He was a sucker for poetry; after sex, He'd lay with his head on my shoulder and trace patterns on my thighs, whispering how beautiful I was, waxing on about my 'unprecedented beauty', crooning about freckled galaxies and oceans of aquamarine and opal, just like my eyes. Bull fucking shit. I snort at the thought of Him waxing on about the same shit, just to a new person; for someone with such a pretty brain, He was fucking stupid when it came to originality. Good fucking riddance. Maybe the new one will realize before He fucks them over, too.
I huddle behind the bus stop shelter and feel my cellphone buzz calmly in my back pocket. Three buzzes. Three buzzes. Three buzzes. The stability soothes my soul as my left hand (the one unoccupied by my cigarette) reaches unconsciously for my back pocket.
It's Him.
He is calling me again, begging to hear my honey words, to get into my head, to fuck me up and then leave.
Should've thought about your girlfriend before dating me, asswipe.
I hang up.
I've already hung up the skeletons in the closet of my head; He is just a footnote. A memory. A modern Shakespeare tragedy.
