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Old Habits. - Quackity Angst

HAHAHAHHAHA hello... get hit with angst losers
TW/CW: alcohol

...

He was in shambles. Why? He doesn't remember. Maybe it was because he spent the last two days waiting for someone who hasn't showed up. It shouldn't have affected him this bad but it has, and he doesn't know why. Another dumb thought piling up in his head.

It's dark, hardly any light in the room, office, he was sitting in. The only available light bouncing off the clear glass bottle of wine he'd drank more than three quarters of. His phone would light up the room with every notfication he got but didn't bother to check it as often as he would. Why isn't he?

His stomach hurts, bad. He doesn't bother to move, he just sits, and stares. He's thirsty, again, but he downs the feeling with wine. When has he last drank water? When had he last eaten? He doesn't know, he doesn't know anything. He can hardly breathe, but he doesn't care. He just stares, digging father into his mind.

Another sip, he needs to stop. More dings light up the room and he flips over his phone. It's silent. Dark. Gloomy. Maybe he likes it? He doesn't know. He can't think straight.

Fuck, whats the time?

Shit, i'm so confused.

He doesn't remember the past hours. His minds foggy and somehow theres another half drank wine bottle on his desk. What's the time? Where is he?

He can't keep his eyes open but he knows if he tries to sleep he won't be able too. His stomach grumbles and he tries to stand to his feet only to fall back in his chair. The pain's unbearable, what the fuck is happening.

He's messaging tommy but he can't seem to understand anything he's typing. His eyes are blurry and dead, scanning the screen for any letter, text he can see.

He can't see, it's too much. He's been informed it's 9 something, but he can't read anymore than that. He feels horrible, the pain twisting and his gut and the putrid air filling his lungs is getting too much for the man himself.

Maybe he should call someone? No, no he can't worry anyone. Maybe he'll pass out and wake up feeling. Or he might just get no sleep at all.

The phone is shaking. No, his hands are shaking. He feels sick, a pounding in his head forcing his mind to move a way he doesn't want too.

Shit, Tommy's concerned. Why can't he keep stuff to himself? The shaking is getting worse, and so is the headache. He takes another large drink of the wine. Maybe this will stop the pain, the agony he's feeling. Another notfication from Tommy comes through. Maybe he should take his advice? God knows he tried before, but even as he tries to move his head more than he was before it spins and different directions. What the fuck is happening, what is wrong with him?

"I'll try," What kind of bullshit is that? He knows he won't be able too anyway. He can't move. Maybe this is his fate. To sip slowly on wine and stare off into the distance of his dark office while death is hanging right over his shoulder.

Times going too fast for him to wrap his head around. It was 9, now its 10, and the bottle's almost done. He doesn't remember drinking any, he needs to stop. He doesn't remember anything from today.

He's still up. What the fuck is he doing up. It's midnight. He can't move. He can't do anything. It's like he's trapped in his own mind, like his whole lower body has shut down. Has it? He takes another sip of the little wine he has left unknowingly.

Shit. He needs to sleep. He's sitting up, his eyes are closed, yet he's unable to fall asleep. It's irritating. His head hurts like hell, it feels like someone is stepping on his fucking ribcage. He still drinks.

He picks up his phone and sends something, he doesn't know what, but prays it notifies someone he's still awake. Praying someone notices he needs help. His eyes are blurry and hurt, but he can make out the words: "Wilbur."

God he's so glad he's memorised the keys on his keyboard. Maybe if his arms weren't so weak he'd be able to actually communicate.

A call comes through.

He answers.

"What the fuck, Quackity, are you okay?" Wilbur spoke, quickly and worrisome.

He opens his mouth to speak on Wilburs words, but a raspy voice not even himself notices is his comes out instead. Fuck he needs water.

"Come over, please," He whispers.

He felt as if his whole body was about to shut down. Was it? He didn't want to die like this. To die like schlatt, drinking.

Fuck, what had he become?

...
809 words
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