kinda sad, kinda depressed, so why not make a one-shot about those same concepts?
very sorry for the graphic nature of this content.
read at your own risk, please.
It's cold out.
And it's not the type of freezing cold where a warm blanket can fix it; not the type of freezing cold where body heat suffices for everything else.
It's the type of cold where you're shivering, your entire body ice. It's the type of cold where your hands shake and twitch with each passing second, as the ice seems to seep into your veins, as it seems to rid you of any sort of heat.
It's the type of cold that exists only inside of the bathroom he sits in, completely encased in warmth and love and sacrifice, and yet feeling nothing but sorrow and cold.
So he sits, leaning against the bathtub, the rug beneath him soft against his skin. It reminds him of his brother; soft, kind, and gentle, but also rugged and dangerous.
Soda was always that way.
A tear falls on his skin, so meek but so undeniably bitter in itself, and everything––the sorrow, the dread, the cold––intensifies.
Suddenly he's reeling, falling into a pit of memories, of pain, of love, of bitterness. Memories of the gang; Two-Bit, Steve, Johnny, Dally, Soda, and Darry. Pain of Johnny's passing, of it becoming too much for Dallas so much that he, too, met light and love out of such darkness and tragedy. Love from his brothers, his non-blood brothers, and his parents, who were too young to have been taken from him in such a short time of his life.
Bitterness at the world for taking everything, everyone, and turning it against him so that he ended up here, in this white room with these white walls and these people dressed in white.
There's nothing here for him; hell, there's no one here for him. There hasn't been in a long, long time.
A flick of his wrist is all he does, and then he's falling into nothing.
Then, when he's just short of becoming nothing, the cold sweeps in and takes him. The snow that falls on his skin is light; it caresses him, holds him close, and he takes the bait and curls into it, allowing everything he once knew to be covered in ice.
The snow-white rug below him is stained red, and his breath is foggy as it leaves his lips.