Tick, tock.
The ever-present sounds of the grandfather clock broke the quiet stillness of late night in their monotonous rhythm. Every so often the faucet would drip, and he would think that the leak needed to be repaired, and how he should call someone in the morning. What time was it again? He rolls over lazily, crimson eyes finding the time on the old clock in the corner. 4:30. His mind begins to wander almost as soon as he's tried to clear it, thinking of all the things one should not think of before falling asleep. Nightmare fuel. He crosses an arm over his face. The room is pitch black, but lights dance behind his eyelids. Overactive imagination, they told him, when he had asked.
A pale hand snakes out, almost hoping to grab hold of someone. But there is no one there. A small, frustrated sigh escapes his terse lips, and he runs his hand against the wooden bedframe thoughtfully. It had always been so much easier to fall asleep with someone beside him. He smiles, the soft kind of smile that he only allows himself to smile in the darkness. And sometimes he pretends that someone might have seen it, and maybe they would seek to know about it. Pale eyelids flutter open once more, but it makes little difference either way. Would he be able to sleep with his eyes open? The thought amuses him for a moment before he starts to fall back into the same downward spiral his thoughts were taking. But didn't they always, at 4:30 in the morning, become unsettling- perhaps even sinister? Even though his mind was safe, he almost feared what would happen if these were thought in the presence of others.
He was on it again. The whole loneliness trip, the one that stayed awake with him all night. Safe in the embrace of solitude he regretted ever trying to find love in something other them himself, he regretted the moment he had ever been embraced by something other then his own emotions. He had tried to live life with no regrets, but it was hard- no, impossible, because here he was entangled in the bed sheets regretting almost everything he had ever done.
His ego was a shell for him to hide in, something that protected him from the truth. He should have died but yet he was still here by some miracle, or was it a curse? He didn't know or care to find out, he at least fooled himself with the prospect of being content. Happy, even. Didn't everyone think he was happy? He would prefer to keep it that way because lying was a lot less painful them humbling himself and showing the emotions he truly felt. Maybe if he was annoying enough people wouldn't forget him like they were starting too, he felt a shadow of doubt creep into his heart- perhaps he was dying after all. He isn't afraid of death. He isn't afraid of anything.
A grimace sours his angular features, crossing his arms across his chest, shielding him from the thoughts he was having. Often times he wondered, he wondered what would happen if he took his brother's gun and pressed it to his head, letting all his sorrow and anger and frustration and loneliness out with one click of a trigger. Or, what if- he moves his hand to trail along the scars that litter his arms, scars borne out of the emotions he hates to show- what if he cut himself just deep enough, and bled himself out on the carpet that his brother loves…
And he does something else that no one is allowed to see.
It's 4:30 in the morning, and Gilbert Beilschidmt is crying his eyes out.
Thanks for reading! Any reviews are much appreciated, also let me know if you'd like me to continue this- It's something I wouldn't mind doing :]