this is an odd one
i kind of based it off the song "clarity" by zedd - this guy in my planning class started singing it and it got stuck in my head o ops
BUT UH- i'm sorry if you don't really understand what's going on, this is written in my usual/casual style, which is really vague and descriptive- so if you're wondering why i barely mention names and why it's written so strangely it's on purpose
g od someone leave me in the trash where i belong i'm so sorry oh man
one day i'll write something that's not a one-shot. one day i'll write something that's not angst. one day i'll write something that doesn't include freud (laughter echoes in the background)
twitter's been taking over my life goodbye enjoy
Another sleepless night.
Insomnia gnawed at his drowsy mind as distraught thoughts danced around throughout his head. Memories flashed before his eyes, tormenting him, aged and decayed like an old film. He recognized them, could even hear the soft, velvety voice echoing from them, but every flicker hurt him to the core.
He drowned himself in alcohol, the intoxicating liquid burning his throat, in hopes it would help fade the recollections away. They never did. The bothersome headache that throbbed in agony with every flash.
Every image yelled the truth, every second he denied it.
Freud was dead.
It bothered him. It bothered him that it bothered him so much. To grieve over a death was one thing, but out-right devastation – devastation that rivaled his vigorous feelings for Aria – was another.
Waves of remorse nostalgia. Frozen shards of the past pierced into his conscious deeper, deeper, into the chest, into the heart.
W
h
y
?
Tremors rumble his very self as confusion wrapped around his soul – w h y.
Memories – bittersweet, joyful, wistful – raged like a fire, fuelling his confusion and anger more.
It hurt. It bothered him that it hurt. Every flash hurt more, every recollection of that smile, that perfectly messy chestnut hair, those crystal blue eyes. Every reminder, every remembrance, a new teardrop to trickle down his rosy cheeks.
The alcohol was a poison that never settled in its venom.
His being died along with Aria.
It was too much – breathing, eating, sleeping, living. Useless, pointless. His room became his closest friend, the vibrant shades that once painted his room melted into dreary shadows of black and grey. The outside world was no longer any concern of his. He reconstructed his impenetrable fortress, refusing to heal, in fear of betraying his pure and utter dedication to Aria.
His stubbornness lead to an unavoidable depression, the depression leading to deserving loneliness.
Loneliness that attached itself to a being, craving and demanding for affection.
His heart was a burning seed – adoration was the water that would prevent him from withering away. He latched himself quickly, desperately; Freud was a philanthropist that provided him with remedies to heal his wilting heart.
He healed. Hundreds of years to come, through frozen coffins and overdue funerals, he belatedly realized he had healed. He healed from the remedies of Freud – the remedy of Freud simply being Freud. He consumed the kind words of advice Freud offered, absorbing them silently into the deep depths of his mind. Every smile, every laugh, every look burned into his heart.
Every moment he held dear, and he never gave any thanks.
Freud was just a person, an obstacle in his plans for revenge.
Freud was not meaningful.
He was a person.
A person who meant nothing to Phantom.
A person who did not measure to Phantom's model of a perfect love, a perfect person.
Not a perfect saint like Aria.
A person.
So why-?
A tremor of anguish quivered in his chest.
Waves washed on shore, filled with sickening remorse. His head spun with confusion. The perfect image he built burned in its canvas.
Recollections of memories he wished to forget played like a silent film, static consuming and clouding his mind.
Flashes of red silk on pale skin, crimson staining fingertips-
He failed her, he failed him, he failed them all.
The ache in his chest worsened. It never left, only worsening every night. Constant reminders, only a simple name brushed on his lips.
Freud.
His eyes burned, betrayal ravaging through him as words danced around the name – miss, love, regret, return, fail, guilt, i'm, so, sorry, why, did, this, happen.
Insignificant. Inconsequential. Negligible. / Preeminent. Consequential. Essential.
Freud
was just
a person.
A person
that simply
repaired him.
A person
that was
nothing.
So why
was he holding
on to nothing?
The bottle of liquor shattered into various sharp pieces of glass. He fingers lazily brushed over the smashed pieces – the curves, the scarred edges – in amazement. Streams of crimson trickled down his finger. An obscure feeling bubbled in his chest; it almost made him chuckle.
A million pieces. Pieces that made a person, pieces that made a heart, pieces that made love.
A million pieces that could hurt and scar. A million pieces that could cut deeply. A million pieces that could kill, potentially, if in the wrong hands.
A million pieces.
Pieces he inadvertently gave to two people.
Two people
that meant everything
but now
were nothing
to the rest of the
living world.
if you're still confused- i tried to make it like phantom use to think of freud as insignificant in his life since he dedicated his life to aria and revenge but now that freud's dead he's questioning his feelings and is confused why he's so upset and holding onto someone who wasn't important to him
basically: gay thoughts can't catch me
LAUGHS
i actually didn't want to post this but eykiel wanted to see it so;; ;A;
im sorry this was kind of bad i'm trash ;n;
! thank you guys for reading tho ;o; one day i'll improve
-kuri!