Wonderfully Random One Shots - A Bleaker Existence

Wonderfully Random One Shots - A Bleaker Existence - Tom Hiddleston Oneshot

Hi, loves. I had an epiphany very early this morning that I have way too many one shots swimming around in my brain and I have absolutely no where to put them. So, if you're interested, just know that these one shots will be fairly random.... and they may or may not be fan fics. It depends.

I'm going to set them up like Tumblr does, in that format, telling you the rating and warning, etc.

Alright, I will be updating my other fanfics fairly soon:-) I promise, I've just been so busy

Enjoy, darlings.

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Title: A Bleaker Existence

Character(s): Tom Hiddleston and OC named Adrianne.

Genre: Angst, Drama, Suicide Attempt

Rating: Teen

A/N: Very random and therefore randomly depressing. I will probably write fifty percent of drama and angst and then fifty percent fluff and romance just because that's the type of person I am. I hope that, in some way, you enjoy this.

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Adrianne POV

I don't know when I started to feel this way. I don't remember when life, my life, a life that through the looking glass is viewed as fabulous and amazing, began to blur into one great blurb of indifference and unimportantance. When my job, a profession that I once adored, became meaningless. When the people in my life, the friends and family, lost their identity.

And, to me, that is strange.

It seems that you would remember something like that, that I would notice that one day of my life was more unclear than another, more of a struggle. Surely I would be able to decipher clarity from a dull thing?

But I haven't, leading me to believe that it was a sudden shift, as I have been implying. Maybe more of a downward spiral, a decline, that was almost undetectable. To both me and to everyone else. To everyone that cared.

And naturally, once one can identify the dullness that seems insatiable, the next sane thought that comes before the insane ones is this: Why? Why me?

A simple, one-worded question that is actually not simple as it sounds and has multiple meanings and parts, comparable to an intricate jig-saw puzzle.

Why is my life so dull? Why don't others see it, and why am I the only one that feels this way? Why do I even feel like this? Why can't I go back to normal? Why don't I feel as excited about something as silly or mundane as a celebrity appearance or my favourite television show? Why do I feel so commonplace? Why am I unhappy?

These are the repeatedly asked questions. Then these questions tip towards the slightly "crazy" end of the scale--at least by soiety's standards-- when you start to ask questions such as this:

Why am I even alive? What's the point?

And, honestly, this question--this question will never be asked by someone who is truly content and pleased with their lot in life. No happy person ever asks why they are alive.

Only depressed people do.

And, I guess, that means I'm depressed.

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"I'll be right back, love." Tom said, his blue eyes playful and mischevious, but still happy nonetheless.

For now, I thought miserably. For now.

I gave him a practiced, but still realistic smile and a genuinely affectionate eye roll, having perfected the sacred art of an actress. A faker. A pretender.