𝚢𝚘𝚞𝚝𝚞𝚋𝚎𝚛 𝚘𝚗𝚎𝚜𝚑𝚘𝚝𝚜

feels like i'm losin my mind [vent fic]

uh hi

so cw for mentions of pyromania, insomnia, burning stuff down, etc etc. ill prolly end up deleting this latr i jus needed to get it out hahahdsjksdfj

take ths as a slimecicle thing if u want idc.

fic title from losing my mind - mystery skulls

word count doesnt matter

━━━━━━━━━▲━━━━━━━━━

charlie stands in front of the carnage, disappointment emanating off his body. it's so dark - the streetlights aren't on, flickering on and off every once in a while. ash covers his socks, lingers on his shirt and in his hair, smoke is in his lungs but he doesn't care, doesn't bother to cough it out, he doesn't care. the smoldering wreckage of a decrepit, abandoned house is at his feet, the fire already going out, wind blowing smoke pretty much everywhere. his face is flat, as opposed to the smile he had when he set it on fire.

if you asked him why he did it, he couldn't tell you. well, no, that's a lie - he does know why. fire does something to him, it makes him feel powerful, in control, the smell of smoke clouds his mind, the feeling of ash beneath his feet and his fingers, seeing what he did after everything dwindles down, the burnt wood and cardboard, melted screws, soot on his face. it makes him feel complete.

there's a word for it, an impulse to start a fire, pyromania.

charlie knows he's a pyromaniac. you've no clue how many times he has to convince himself not to pull his lighter out, not to light something on fire, not to burn himself or something or someone else and it hurts him, he wants the gratification, he needs it and he can't get it.

he craves setting the fires. the smell of gasoline, the familiar sizzle of something burning, it's like a drug that he can't get enough of, he's an addict and his addiction is too strong for him to overcome.

the gasoline can is empty, discarded to the side, the smell overwhelms him. he steps away, shoves his hands in his pockets, feeling around for the lighter. he pulls it out, steps onto the sidewalks, walks away from the ashes of the burnt-down building, pulls his jacket closer to him. it's cold, unbearably cold, he hates it.

the urge to set another fire is slowly trickling into his veins, and he huffs, tapping his thumb against each of his individual fingers one at a time, feeling exhausted and yet too pent up to sleep. so he walks for a little while, wandering across the street, underneath flickering streetlights and in front of closed restaurants, imagining how it would feel like to burn them down, to have the ashes crunch under his shoes. he's in control, he tells himself, he won't do that, he's in control.

sure, he's stressed. ocular migraines and nausea combined with not eating often and not sleeping, he's constantly tired and snappy and cranky, but he's in control. he's in control and he'll stay in control. he's aware that he's pretty much walking into flames at this point, the fire consuming him until he himself turns to ash and smolders, not unlike the buildings and small things he's previously set on fire, but he's got this.

he's in control.