psithurism | DNF

chapter 32

Should I make a playlist for George's music in the story?
!!tw: suggested suicide, auditory hallucinations, self-harm imagery!! i'm proud of you all, reach out if you need help<3 gosh i'm sorry this story is all angst now, idk if you've taken notice but i like writing deep. the rest do the book will be like this!

also, i'm aware gnf would never wear stuff that i put him in in my FFS, but one can dream he would wear a turtle neck and style it nicely
-

-flash forward to the weekend, everyone's out besides George-

From that day on, he swore to himself to never wear a skirt again.

He connected his AirPods to his phone and blasted one song throughout the day, it could never get old.

Bad Things, by Cults.

The one thing he was proud of was his music taste. It might've been just a little basic but basic wasn't bad. He hated how people portrayed basic music as a bad thing.

He also hated how people portrayed him as a weak boy. A weak boy that needed help with everything.

"Are you alright?" No fuck off, leave me alone. I can handle my feelings, I'm not weak you prick!

Except you are weak George, end it. End it all, you'll feel that peace of mind. I promise you won't regret it.

It told him. Again and again and again, until someone broke his train of thought each time.

-
!! Detailed-ish self-harm TW starts here. !!

It was nearing Christmas break and he couldn't feel any less excited. He wrote in his journal each day about how he felt, hoping to see a good change. To perhaps have a Christmas spirit, but it was nowhere to be found.

Except he let the lines on how wrist keep doubling in numbers. Letting the blood spill onto the pages of his journal in reminder of how weak he was.

He wished he could find it in himself to say, cmon, you're way better than this George, but no. He wasn't.

And each time he cut again, he felt worse and punished himself by doing it more and more and more. Until he couldn't handle the amount of blood that ran down his wrists.

!! TW ends here !!

In hopes of clearing his head, which never worked, he pulled out his journal. He was finished with Dreams song now he had to write a song for his parents.

The two people he hated the most. And he was sure they hated him just as much. How could they be so cruel?!

He dug his pencil into the journal page, causing it to break. That little thing set him off, he started to cry. He hated himself.

He hated how small things made him cry,

Pathetic, you're pathetic George Davidson.

It was right. Whatever it truly was.

Once he picked himself up a little bit, he grabbed a different pencil.

Wasn't that big of a deal, why did you even cry? God, man up.

He ignored the thought while writing down everything he felt for his parents. It wouldn't mostly revolve around his father.

He remembered it being a living hell when he had come out to his parents. Especially his father. Sometimes, he wondered if his mother was too afraid to speak up for herself.