Author's Notes:
Update 1/5.
I'm still terribly unwell. Barely writing anything at all, just piddly scraps and trying to edit/finish WIPs from months ago. I have four ready, finally, and will be posting. Number 5 depends entirely on whether I can actually do anything tonight or not.
I hope you all are well.
Disclaimer: The Loud House Copyright Nickelodeon (2018)
SUFFER
The pen drops to the desk.
The paper crumples to a pitiful ball.
Smacks into a bin.
Silence.
Nails scrape on the wood.
A fist pounds the side.
Teeth gnash together, crunching and crackling like lightning.
Fingernails hook into an orange shirt and jerk, ripping it away.
A rapid beating chest appears, flushed; the veins dark and rigid, pushing into the skin.
That pen rolls onto its side as a hand moves to grab it.
Fingers shake, knocking it away; quickly searching for it; desperately needing it; almost there; hitting it farther; it nearly falling from the edge; the fingers clench!
Without a second thought, they take the pen, crushing it hard enough it cracks, and drive it into that weak chest.
Wedging it between two ribs.
Aiming for the heart.
Screaming.
Harder.
The ink drips down the hand, pouring into the wound.
Blackness somehow brighter than the vile plague beneath bone and flesh.
The plastic bends and shatters.
Fragments lodge in the skin.
The chair falls to the side.
A boy rolls onto the ground.
Tears fall to the carpet.
A hand slams down, an arm lifting him back up.
It gives out. His face falls. His neck cracks.
Pain.
Darkness oozes from his chest, staining the floor, spreading, devouring.
Nails scrape the carpet.
No relief.
Whimpers turn into a groan.
He looks up. Cannot see.
He opens his lips. Cannot speak.
He rolls onto his back.
His body in pain, his hands shaking, his face twitching, his shoulders and back so stiff and tight they try to force him into a bow.
His grunt turns into a scream as he fights it back.
The urge to grab his wrist.
To rip his skin from his body.
The urge to drive something sharper into his chest.
To dip into his ribs and pull out the worthless flesh beneath.
It's gone.
The pain.
Now it's cold.
He shivers.
His breath comes out in a fog.
His eyes clench shut.
His body twists together to save heat.
It's gone.
The ink covers every inch of him.
Black.
Darkness.
Nothing.
He wishes he died.
But he won't.
He can't.
Something as vile as him doesn't deserve it.
He only deserves great pain.
Anguish.
Iniquity.
And he'll pay for it with every drop of pain that trickles from his dying heart.
From the moment he was born.
A nothing with a name.
A Lincoln that's nothing.