Total. Writer's. Block.
So one-shot. A Miz shot! The last few lines can be taken as friendship, slash, whatever you want to take it as. It doesn't really matter. Also, I feel as if this one-shot is weird but part of me likes it and wants it posted. A crazy part of me... Jeffy: Me! Oh, you wanted me to post this up.
Anyways, "My Friend of Misery" belongs to Metallica and this is based on that song. Yeah, first Miz one-shot. Excited!
My Friend of Mizery
Oh, how you want to scream, Mizzie.
You want to scream but your lips are sewed together and you feel like you've forgotten how to scream anyways so it doesn't count, right? You know that no one really listens to you, ignoring your happy, hyper comments and pretending you don't exist and you're shunned by the world around and you want to learn how to shun the world, too and you remember a time where everything's all sunshine and happiness and rainbows and clouds and no one ever gives you limits but now, you have limits, you're not a freaking child anymore and you know it but can't you have the enthusiasm of a child? Can't you make the sad tape that's replaying inside of your head happy?
(Why do I smile when I'm so broken?)
As hard as you try, these voices, this tape that's been replaying in your head, it's become your friend and you know you can't shun them because you can't handle the silence. Silence doesn't belong in the real world. Silence belongs in graveyards when you're mourning, silence belongs in a white hospital room when the only thing that can be heard is the beeping, silence is not your friend, Miz, you hate the silence because it makes you feel empty and you don't want to feel empty. You want to feel full with the happiness that you've once felt but that's gone now, isn't it?
(I'm sick and twisted and I don't really care.)
Even the sound of this tape playing in your head soothes you and you listen to any voice even if no one's ever listened to you. You guess you're born different, never engulfing yourself in the silence while everyone else did, forcing that tape to get replayed in your head only because you can't handle the eerie, dark quiet that's stirring in the room that you're in and sometimes, you wish that you'd hear what you want to hear but you hear everything.
(I hear them talk behind their backs and I hate what they say about me.)
You know everything and you don't have anything to show it and you still go around pretending to be happy because you believe that if you fake the lie, you might feel it, live it, embrace it but nothing—you don't feel anything when you're supposed to be happy but you smile anyways and your eyes just break half the time but no one really notices because no one really cares and the tragedy and fall of your own world depresses you and you don't know how to save yourself.
(Why do you keep doing this to yourself?)
(Because it's the only way out.)
You try to make everyone else happy, just to have them listen to you, just to have them hear the pain that's always resided even as hard as you try to imagine it's not there, it's still pushing and condensing, harder than ever before, and at some point, you don't think there is anything in the world called happiness.
After all, if happiness is there, why are you always so sad? Why do you have to pretend to be happy?
(I think that the first time I've noticed is when he stopped caring.)
(No one cares about me so why should I care about anyone else?)
At some point, the tape that you've always replayed (of what they say about me) just stops replaying and you stand up and scream because you can't take it anymore and why doesn't anyone care about anything you say? The tape replays in your head and you're being pushed over the edge and you're falling off—and—and—and—there's something so very wrong with you, isn't there, Miz?
Why can't you feel happy?
Why can you see things they can't?
Why are you so different?
The tapes that are replaying in your head are gone and you have to talk to yourself, and you try not to shun anything—you hate, hate, hate the silence—and you know that people don't even take the time to think about you, much less care, so you pretend like the eyes aren't staring because pretending is what you're good at, right? You think you're dead on the inside but you're alive, you just forgot how to live but that doesn't matter, right?
…right?
Words don't mean anything, do they? Because you just realize that you've been living in the silence that you're trying so hard to avoid.
Silence of words that are unspoken. You know that he cares and you know that he's watching over you but the silence…
The silence…
You've never listened to the silence…
And silence speaks more than words.
(You're fine.)
(I'm not. I'm miserable.)
(If you're so miserable, Mizanin, how come you're still here?)
(Because mizery loves company, Morrison.)
This was weird. It sorta made sense in a weird way. Too much caffeine I guess. Review?? And if I get a flame from a certain girl again, I'm going to explode!
;) Sam