Title: Laughing by Default
Summary:- ONESHOT - Matt lets it all burn down and muses how his life is a three-ringed circus; there are too many clowns, and everyone's always laughing. –NO, THIS IS NOT A FUNNY STORY. DON'T EXPECT TO SMILE.
Disclaimer: Fuck, I don't own anything. If I did, I'd have money, a nice home, and I wouldn't need anyone. But, I'm broke as fuck, my home life sucks, and I need my friends. They love me, even when they shouldn't. And I love them, even when I don't show it. I love and need them, and… well, this is a disclaimer so… I DON'T OWN ANYTHING OTHER THAN MY OWN FEELINGS AND WORDPLAY.
Author's Note: I went to bed in a good mood. I woke up in a great mood. I've been up for two hours, and in those two hours, life has become shit, and I was almost ready to end it, but I'm better than that. I've decided that there is a way out of this hell, and it doesn't involve my impending death. I have too much to live for, too many friends, and too many promises that need kept. So, I'm venting my frustrations, angers, and bouts of depression the only way I know how. I'm writing up a dandy author's note and whimsy'ing the hell out of a OneShot.
…
Matt sat on the couch in the foyer. His head was spinning and his body was aching. He didn't dare look to the mirror to see how badly bruised he was. (Every mirror in the condo was broken anyways due to some sort of violence that had occurred.) A cigarette hung between his lips in a lazy manner and a handheld was cradled gently in his hands. He moved as little as possible, not wanting to cause himself more pain.
On the small screen, Mario died and his kill theme sounded before a menu popped up and offered the gamer a chance to try again. And, though he'd normally play for hours, he no longer saw the point. He let the handheld fall from his grasp and clatter to the floor. He sat back and took a deep drag of his sweet addiction before parting his lips to release smoke while the cigarette fell from his mouth and landed on his chest.
The fabric of his shirt instantly started to burn and his skin beneath it stung, but he made no move to do anything about it. He simply let his head fall back to look at the ceiling. He wondered if there was a God above him, towering over the masses like a familiar albino towered over toys… so long ago.
He smiled at the very idea, but there was no joy radiating from said smile. He was not happy. He was bitter and cold. He was angry. He was ready to let go. He no longer wished to partake in the circus of life. Because it sucked. This three-ringed event in which he lived, it was old, tired, worn out and washed up. He grew up, and he grew to hate it.
He spent his every day, observing clowns with and without makeup –they all wore fake faces and false expressions; they all lied through their teeth and expected the world to be handed to them; they all laughed like every moment held the most gut-busting joke.
But the only joke Matt could focus on was how phony everyone was.
Matt wasn't like them. He didn't wear a fake face. He didn't wear a face at all. He imagined himself as a rogue embodiment that God created by mistake. He was the unfinished game character of the most realistic RPG. His body was sculpted, his skin tone was selected, but his face was blank and his clothes were default.
No player commanded him to play, so he remained nothing more than data stored in the drive.
There was a time when he was happy to be stored away until needed, but not now. No happiness whatsoever. He was done.
He tilted his head to look at the fabric that disappeared before his eyes, eaten by small flames that regurgitated smoke. His shirt was burning; the flesh beneath it was searing in pain as it became coated in angry red blisters.
Still, he remained stationary.
His own personal character was idle.
He closed his eyes and detached himself from the reality he was in. In his mind, he wasn't Matt, who sat in a shabby home awaiting orders; he wasn't used solely to handle tech-shit for someone he once cared for. No. In his mind, he was Mail, the child whose mother held so dearly and whose father worked hard to support.
A smile slipped into place at the very memory of the parents he once had… before things got bad. Before his father fell more in love with the alcohol than his own family. Before his mother got sick of staying at home to deal with problems and just got up and left. Before Mail was sent away. Before Mail ceased to exist completely. Before Matt was born from the despair Mail left behind.
"I'm sorry," the redhead whispered, though he wasn't quite sure to whom he spoke. "I'm sorry for everything."
And he was sorry. So damn sorry.
But he was angry. So damn angry.
And when his shirt had burned away completely and a small fire climbed up the fabric of the couch, he sat there, smiling.
Because, maybe he wanted to be a clown too. Maybe he inwardly wished to join their lies. Maybe… he could pretend to be happy… just like they did.
And maybe everything would be okay.
He felt a laugh tear through his parted lips and he kicked his feet against the nearby coffee table. He didn't know if he was laughing because something was funny… or because he was in pain, gradually being engulfed in flames.
All he knew, was that he could still hear the faint cry of Mario's theme, he was laughing, and somehow, everything seemed so much brighter than it did before.
The fire roared, Matt's body burned, and the entirety of the condo began to collapse inward as simmering bits of wood fell, ashes fluttered, and… laughter continued to ring out, louder than the distant sirens of firetrucks.
And while Matt felt himself fading into whatever hell he'd created for himself, all he could think about was how everything came down to this one moment. And it was so damn funny. And it hurt so bad. But… he was laughing. He was smiling. He was a clown, and this tent was coming down, and everyone –including the firemen –was gathering outside to see the last show and hear the last laugh.
...
/Short and sucky. But I was upset and typed this up on whimsy./