Well. I am displeased about our power being out all night and com-ed workers waking me up at 3:30 in the am as they applied chainsaws while clearing the power lines. Plus surelysilly dubbed me pure evil the other day. So here. Have angst. Mua ha ha.
It apparently materialized in my inbox last September with no context whatsoever and no notes for what it was supposed to turn into. So I'm just copy/pasting it here and calling it complete even though it isn't really.
Enjoy. Or, you know, don't. Cause it's that kind of piece.
Possibly trigger warning for mourning/depression. Is that a thing? If "Rain of Tears" bothered you, this is more in the same vein. Conversely, if you really liked "Rain of Tears," congrats. This is more in the same vein.
Title loosely taken from a Leslie Bricusse musical.
stop the world I wanna get off
July 14, 2015
Tucker turned over, rumpling his sheets even more with his movement. Didn't bother to rearrange things so that they were more comfortable for him. Just lay there with his comforter bunched up so that it dug into his hip. His neck pinched against an oddly lumpy pillow.
But he didn't move. Didn't seem to register that he could change positions.
He blinked, glad that everything was out of focus. Grateful that without his glasses, it didn't really look like the world existed. Anything beyond his bed was blurred. Out of focus. Indisctinct. Non existent.
It was just him. And his covers. And the bunch of sheets in his fist. And the empty box of tissues next to his bedside lamp.
That was his world. And everything in it. Nothing else existed. Nothing else mattered.
Not the homework on his chair or the the game of Doomed he paused the night before or the fourteen missed calls from Sam or the splintered pieces of the phone that still lay on the floor from when he'd chucked it against the wall to keep it from ringing again.
Just him. And his sheets.
He considered turning over again. Because he was uncomfortable. And it gave him something to do. He thought about it for a while before deciding that he liked being uncomfortable. And that he didn't want to have anything to do.
It wasn't fair that he did. That he could have the luxury of finding something to do when…
When.
He turned his face into his pillow and scrunched up his face. Tried to push the prickling of his eyes away by force. No tears. No crying. No emotion. No.
He was done with it all.
He was so tired of it all.
No more.
It took a while before he realized he had been holding his breath. An effective tear stopping mechanism, but one that lungs didn't particularly appreciate, however. He lifted his head for a bit, took some rasping breaths. Felt his throat close up.
No.
He blinked harder as his eyes began to blur. He could feel the build up of salt on his lashes.
He punched the pillow. Then he turned over and pulled the cover over his head.
It was dark. Dark and quiet. And the world was just in here. Just him and his sheets. Him in the darkness. Nothing existed beyond the bed. Nothing was happening. Nothing had happened. There was nothing that he needed to think about. Nothing that he should remember.
He rubbed his eyes, thought of nothing, and took a couple minutes to count to ten.
He didn't sleep. Not really. He couldn't. How could he? He didn't want to. Because he couldn't control his dreams when he slept. He couldn't force himself to think of nothing. And he was scared of what he was going to see. Scared of what his mind would force him to live through in his subconscious.
He drifted sometimes. Became so exhausted that he couldn't keep his eyes open any more. Those were good times, when he just breathed in and out and thought of nothing. And no demands were made on his system and he didn't have to remember that his best friend was…
But then of course he would remember.
He would remember that Danny was dead.
He would remember that his best friend was gone. Really and truly gone. And not coming back. Not a ghost. Not a half ghost. Not just a regular guy. He was gone. And dead. And never coming back. And Tucker was never going to see him again.
He'd known him ever since he was three. And now he would have to live the rest of his life without him.
Tucker drew the covers around his head a bit tighter.
The thought terrified him.
His stomach, always upset now, began clenching again. And he started crying before he even realized what he was doing.
Danny was gone.
Danny was dead.
And they would never play Doomed and they would never pull an all nighter studying for one of Lancer's horrible tests and they would never go on patrol with Sam and he would never get to tease them about being lovebirds again and
And he was gone.
Just like that.
He was gone.
He was gone and gone and gone and not coming back and Tucker just couldn't handle that right now.
He knew that Danny was gone. He knew what that meant. He knew he couldn't change it. That death was one of those irreversible things.
But he wished… with all his heart he wished that it wasn't true. He couldn't change that, he knew. But he could pretend… just for a little bit… that this wasn't real. That it hadn't happened. That Danny wasn't dead. If he just… if he just stayed here inside his blanket. And didn't think. He could cry and pretend that it wasn't real.
He knew it wasn't true. His head knew and his heart knew and he knew it was stupid and unhealthy, but he choked back another sob and thought that it might be the only way he could get through this. Get past today. Not have his heart simply stop beating because how could it continue on like this without giving out?
He wondered if that would really be so bad. If he simply cried himself out of existence. But it hurt too much and his eyes were nearly puffed closed and his floor, if it still existed out there beyond his blankets, were covered with crumpled up tissues from more than one box.
But before he went out, it would hurt. It would just hurt so much. And he couldn't. He couldn't go on with his heart in his throat and tears that refused to come because his body had cried itself out while he still wanted to weep.
He couldn't.
He couldn't.
He couldn't do this anymore.
He just. Danny wasn't dead.
He repeated the line to himself over and over and over.
Danny's not dead.
He's not.
He's alive.
Ghost didn't get him.
Didn't slice him open like a…
Danny's not dead.
He's not dead.
He's alive. He's home.
I'm just sick. And had a weird dream. And in a few days I'll go back to school
And Danny will be there waiting for me like nothing ever happened.
And he'll let me read his notes from the classes I missed
And then we'll all go to the Nasty Burger to grab a get-well milkshake and mighty meaty melt.
And then we'll go watch a movie. And we'll throw popcorn at the projector. And Sam will somehow find a way to hold hands and I won't even make a rude comment or try to take a picture with my phone. Because I'm that nice.
And because Danny's not dead.
He's not. He's not.
He'snot he'snot he'snot.
Tucker covered his face with his hands, pressing down to try to block everything out. He tried to concentrate on the darkness beneath his pillow, tried to think of nothing, absolutely nothing, tried to just lie there and exist in only the most general of terms.
He had quieted down again when the door opened.
He froze, holding his breath, trying to pretend like he wasn't there. Maybe whoever it was would just go away and would leave him alone and would let him deal with this the way he wanted to instead of pressing and pushing and saying I'm sorry because how did that make anything any better?
He barely had the strength to hold himself together when his world was no bigger than the bed. He just wanted to stay here and be away from everyone and everything and the door opening was not a good sign. He tended to cry whenever people came in. And he didn't want to cry. And he didn't want anyone else to see him cry. Or help him cry, or offer to hold him while he cried. He just wanted to be alone so that maybe, just maybe, he could pretend that Danny was still alive for today so that he wouldn't have to cry.
Soft footsteps walked across the carpet. Stopped a respectable distance away. But it was still inside the room. Inside the space he had closed off from himself. And he waited with baited breath, trying not to move or prompt any kind of interaction.
"Tucker?" his mom asked softly.
He bit his lip. Maybe she would go away.
"Tucker?" she walked forward. "Sweetie?"
And that was all I had. So. The end.