a string of oneshots.

c.g. ☁︎ relapse

wc: 4, 208
tw: relapse, self-harm, suicidal thoughts, depression (vent)

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I think I've completely lost it.

Normally I'd fake it until there's a break in pattern, but I've just gotten so tired. I'm tired of my days bleeding into one another. Tired of the aching pains in my chest. Tired of the tears that won't come out to til the last second - then comes the rushing never ending flood. I'm tired of feeling tired. I've lost everyone I thought I had been close to. Though, my circle was small it's clear now that I'm living in the dot by myself now. There's no end in sight, well not the desired end. I miss my friends. I'm not sure that they miss me, Zoe and Madison have been so caught up in one another, which leaves me Misty, who'd rather spend every waking moment away from the academy, safe in her swamp. There's Queenie, who'd rip my head off if she were given the chance, there's no hope. Oh.

Then there's Cordelia. The woman who shines brighter than the sun itself. I don't deserve her. For fuck sake, she's the fucking supreme. What am I? A weak, barely powerful witch who can barely get out of her head enough to actually practice magic. There's no one better than Delia. Everyone loves her. She radiates warmth and comforts the hell out of everyone. Perhaps it's in hopes of breaking the ways of her mother, giving those the love they need to keep going on, one that she was robbed of. Does anyone even help her? Who holds her when she needs it? As far back as I remember, she's the one who's always helped me.

I can't do this.

If I keep lying, it'll be worse.

I'm beyond help.

Bunching the covers in my hand, I push them down. Her spot is cold, she must be teaching by now. On shaky legs I walk over to the bathroom and stare at myself in the mirror. God, you make me sick. Picking up the brush I ran it through the tangled mess of (y/h/c) hair. Once the mess was tamed enough, the voices came back. Louder than usual, screaming and pushing me in a corner. I curled up next to the cabinets, bringing my knees to my chest, putting my head down and interlocking my hands behind my head. Trying to take deep breaths, my body shook with fear and anger. Nothing will help. Pushing myself back just enough to open the cabinets i began to rummage through the various items. Keeping it neat was a problem for later, though Cordelia's gonna be mad at the mess. She'll be mad regardless. Standing up and checking the drawers one by one, nothing. Pulling open the last drawer with anger, a box from the back slid up, standing out from everything else.

296 days.

Picking up the box, I fell back to my spot on the floor. Examining the box as if it were the Mona Lisa in my hands. The shaking in my hands only made the contents inside rumble around. I felt frozen. Letting out a deep breath I realized I had been holding my breath. Shaking my head I went to put them back, the box glued to my hand as I tried to put it down.

296 days.

As the tears flooded my eyes, I shook my head. Angry with myself as I pulled back the sealant keeping the box shut. With shaky hands, I broke off one. What are you doing? My hands finally let me put down the box. I had one, that was more than enough. Looking down at my thighs I saw the scattered scars around my legs, mostly faded, but noticeable enough to trace back the memory of doing it.

296 days.

As footsteps ran down the hall, I held my breath again. Worried someone was coming in. But it never happened. A part of me was more saddened at the matter, an aching pain in which I can do nothing. Begging others to love me is a non negotiable. If they don't want you in the first place, why in the hell would they want you at all?