A/N: I know this is cheesy to start off a story with an Author's Note and I've definitely grown out of that habit, as any of you who are even still following me recall me doing in abundance when I was younger. But I feel compelled to say something about this story before you read it. The words I've written down aren't subtle, they aren't nuanced, they're very in your face and obvious. This is because what I've written is about me. I've taken my favorite character and applied my problems, my disability to him and I wrote out something that described how I felt and as a result the narrative can come off as very heavy handed and perhaps a bit too dramatic.
As you're reading please keep in mind that the faults you might see here aren't so much a reflection of how I prefer to write my stories, but how I feel personally. I usually don't like blatant, obvious, hand fisted messages like this, but I feel it's important to get these feelings out of my system and tell a story that will make me feel better myself.
I also hope to make this more than one chapter.
Thank you.
Torrents of rain beat down on the window in the late afternoon, showers so harsh that it cast the sky over an ugly gray that seemed to expand into the horizon endlessly. The hideous, dusty pink armchair that sat by the window proved to be as uncomfortable as Ryou deserved.
Why on earth should you be allowed to be comfortable?
It wasn't that he liked watching the rain, per se, but it was more that he couldn't muster the will power to do anything besides stare blankly out a window into the empty streets outside his father's house. Firmly glued to the chair, the thought of moving didn't sound appealing, even if he was bored out of his mind. Even the growl of his stomach wasn't enough to move him. He'd probably been doing this for about an hour now.
Let your stomach hurt. It's easier than making yourself bleed.
Eventually he did have to get out of that musty old chair and… find a new dated piece of furniture act as his comfort. Maybe the couch would provide a good enough place to stare at a wall or something.
You're the most boring individual to exist.
He got up. His face had been resting against his palm for so long that a bright red mark was left in its place once he moved, angry and vibrant against his pale skin. He moved to the living room, away from the window and into the darkness of the unlit living room. The bulbs hadn't burned out, but he simply didn't feel like he could flip the switch.
Too much effort? How fucking lazy of you.
He did turn the TV on though, only because he'd laid on top of the remote and it was uncomfortable enough for him to move it. Might as well press the button while he had it there. He'd left it on public access programming and some local news show rambled off about bullshit. It sounded like static to him. White noise that meant nothing more than to provide background noise. Some nonsense about tournaments and museum exhibits trailed off into nothingness, echoing and falling on deaf ears.
It's not worth leaving home.
The couch was lumpy, old, just like everything else in the house his father abandoned. It wasn't much more comfortable than the pink armchair by the window. But then the recliner wouldn't be better, neither would the shitty old loveseat perpendicular to him…
A perfect place to wallow in misery eh?
The phone never rang. If he wanted someone he had to call them first… at least it felt that way. Reasonably Ryou knew that they probably called him every so often, but he never felt that was the case. Instead it just felt silent here.
Let the loneliness consume you.
Maybe going to bed would help.
Simultaneously exhausted and restless, he got up, turning the TV off and trudging upstairs to his bed where he promptly curled into a tight ball in the blankets, pulling the duvet up to his chin. Perhaps if he stayed there long enough then things would be okay. His stomach disagreed, growling much louder. His throat burned with threats of acid reflux, a warning for what would come should he continue not to eat anything. But at this point he was so hungry that if he tried to eat anything, it felt as though he would vomit, so he sat there and endured.
Pathetic. Just do something if you're so miserable!
He wanted to cry but was too tired to bring tears up, once more staring at the wall. He reached for his phone after a few minutes, flipping through various social media accounts and hoping to god one of them would notice how absent he'd been and say something. That one of his friends would text or perhaps his father would call.
The clock on his wall ticked in time with his misery, a constant, steady pace of crippling sadness that pushed him further into a spiral.
No one cares. And even if they do, are you really going to bother them with your trivial bullshit?
So, he watched from afar, banging on the glass that held him back mentally. Banging on the glass to get attention. Someone pay attention. Please. Anyone. Look at him. There's water filling his glass tank now and he's going to drown.
Tick. Tock. Tick. Tock.
He's struggling to keep his head up and if he'd just call out to everyone passing by then he'd be saved but they might be stressed out in the wake and he can't risk bringing anyone down with him. His lungs burn. His stomach aches. His throat has a huge knot in it. The water keeps rising, his forehead to the ceiling now, staring out at happy faces chatting back and forth, talking about their interests so close to him but never looking his way.
If he could just open his stupid fucking mouth and ask for help, they'd help. They'd throw a life vest his way. He might be able to pull himself out.
He takes a gulp of water down.
Vision blurs with tears as he continues to scroll through his phone. The rain outside beats on his window, wind lashing violently and whistling shrilly. Thunder rattles the window when it crackles, causing him to curl in tighter and tighter.
Tick. Tock. Tick. Tock. Tick. Tock. Tick. Tock. Tick. Tock.
Compulsively replying how excited he is for a new game, a new movie, the latest episode of that show. Giving everyone around him this false sense that he's alright.
Don't drown them with you.
Water goes up his nose and he's choking, there's not enough air in this tank. There's not enough room for him to breathe. He's crashing. He'll burst into tears.
Disgusting.
Crying alone isn't so bad.
You've been drowning for months.
He can endure it.
Just end the suffering already. It's so easy.
He can't do that. He doesn't want to die.
Tick. Tock. Tick. Tock.
He'd always blamed his loneliness on the Spirit. He'd always told himself that once the Spirit was gone the negative voices would stop and he'd be free and happy…
But the Spirit had been gone for a year now and the negativity never stopped. It continued to lash at him.
The water is dark, filling his lungs. He's choking. Crying. Sputtering. It's ugly and there's saliva on his pillow and snot down his lip. Hiding under the sheets doesn't make it hurt less, it doesn't shield him. The murky waters continue to fill his lungs, his ears, his brain. The wind outside screeching louder and louder. Flashes of lightning are accompanied by the loud, disrupting sounds of thunder and crash down like cymbals, they ring in his ears and make his eardrums hurt.
The house is shaking now, the storm outside is deafening.
Tick. Tock. Tick. Tock.
Stop being such a baby and get over it. It's not that bad. Everyone else has it worse.
The windows shudder again with the wind, the ceiling creeks, and the air feels like static. Louder and louder the thunder gets, looming almost directly above him.
CRRRRACK
Something lands on him and his bed snaps and Ryou is sent to the floor. The storm stops and Ryou finds himself being weighed down by something too heavy to be metaphorical. He pulls the sheets down the rest of the way and finds a tangle of limbs; pink, fleshy, and naked. They writhe, the bones in them snapping and cracking as if belonging to an old man. Ryou looks on in horror as the creature picks itself up and reveals itself to be a man. He can see the spine and ribs through its skin, hunched over a little. The man sits up and a puff of greasy, white hair tumbles down over its shoulders.
Ryou's heart stops as it turns to look at what it's sitting on and a face identical to his own stares back. Slowly, the confused look the man is giving him deepens.
"What the fuck am I doing here?" The man croaks out, his voice gravelly and sounding unused.
Raspy as it might be, the voice is familiar nonetheless and Ryou's eyes widen in response. The Spirit had returned.
The racket in Ryou's head, stopped.