There is this one guest, not sure if it's the same person, but I'm going to assume it is, and I wanted to thank them for their well thought out and kind reviews, it really motivates me to actually try when I write instead of letting it dissolve into random junk my head provides, so thank you.
This will get angsty or Stangsty, I guess, because Stan still hasn't told them about his nightmares, and they're getting progressively worse. So Tw: For really messed up night terrors. Etc. I didn't really like the sixth chapter...so I'm hoping that I can make my other ones better to atone for it. Hence this:
Stanley had gone through a lot in his short life. He had traveled around the world, met people and seen monuments. Sometimes, he loved it. The freedom. He loved those days, the days he could pretend. Pretend he wasn't wanted in ninety percent of the United States, that he wasn't a hardened criminal living off others hard work to survive, doing odd jobs for crooks and druggies so he could eat the next day. The days he could pretend he was just a traveling guitarist, one that wasn't trying to live off the coins they threw in his hat. Those were the good days.
Then came the nights. The nights where he was running out of cash and had to sneak something under his shirt at a gas station to survive, because dangit, Stanley didn't beg. He refused to. He didn't need to. {He didn't want that, to be a burden, to be a leech not again.} The nights where he was running, running, sprinting because if he didn't he would die. He would fall.
The nights where he was fighting. Fighting for another's life or his own, only one thing mattered was that they survived. So he fought and-
Sometimes, it could be too much. His mind just couldn't take it.
Stan knew he had nightmares. He knew they were an issue, but he didn't know they could get this bad. Could become so life-consuming that it showed, it showed right through the act he put up, through the walls he tried so hard to build and maintain, even to himself. They had started after being thrown out. Less of a nightmare and more of a repeated memory, one that still haunted him.
His own logic in the strange set of events that were unfolding now went as so;
He had very little sleep, out there on the streets, was too alert to get proper rest, so the nightmares were very, very rare, and often easy to overcome, to wave away.
After he moved in with his brothers, he got more rest, his mind still alert, yet aware that he was safe. Safe enough. So he slept. He slept well, those first few nights.
Then the nightmares started.
At first, they were much like the ones he had out on the streets, brief and easily explained away. Forgotten. Stan barely noticed when they started to worsen, to become more detailed. They were usually just memories, which were indeed nightmare-ish, but manageable. He had already been through them once before anyway.
But they didn't stop. It didn't matter what he told himself, that they weren't real, they were just his mind trying to understand what it had been through, he was just trying to cope with the fact that he was safe.
Was he?
They continued to torment him. To morph his memories into terrors he wasn't sure how his mind was capable of conjuring. He began waking up in cold sweats, glaring at a threat that wasn't there, and the fear eating him alive. He started to pray for Ford and Fidds not to notice, to see that he wasn't sleeping, not eating or even smiling as often. He prayed that he wasn't screaming, so they couldn't hear the gut-wrenching fear he felt, to hear the desperation as he called for help to someone that wasn't there. He begged the universe to at least give him that. He didn't want to hurt them. That wasn't why he was there! He was supposed to protect them...
He started coping, in his own way, started building the walls again, so his mind had to change tactics. Switch it up on him.
It wasn't him being hurt anymore.
It was them.
He watched on, helpless as his only newly reunited twin was suffocated to death by each and every one of his enemies. He fought and ran, but never came any closer when he saw Fiddleford, his only other friend being brutally murdered before his eyes.
And he was useless. He couldn't protect them. He had failed.
That's when he couldn't handle it. That's what broke him. Stan woke up, a scream in his throat, legs and arms thrashing out in despair. He could feel his heart in his chest, pounding, nearly punching through his ribs. The rush of adrenaline making everything sound like white noise and the taste of fear on his tongue. He bolted upward, eyes darting every which way as he pushed through the dark hallway to the only other bedrooms in the house.
He found Ford's door first, and without warning burst into the room. The door crashing against the wall was enough to wake up Ford, who jolted upward. Stanley couldn't hear him through his relief. Yet the relief was soon overcome with panic again and Stan left to find Fiddleford. He could still feel his heart pounding and ignored it when he thought he felt it stop for a moment.
Fiddleford was gone.
Stanley nearly died right then and there, although he didn't know, or care. He ran out of the room, a scream building in his throat as he ran to the living room because the nerd had to be somewhere, right? RIgHT?
Racing to the living room, he found Fiddleford sitting on the couch, reading a book with a cup of coffee, which he dropped in surprise.
Stan didn't hear him either when he sunk to the floor. He fell to the ground, his mind still trying to deny the facts, yet having a hard time denying what was in front of him. Ford had followed him, with concerned questions Stan didn't hear.
Curling up on himself, he became slightly more conscious of a very important fact.
He couldn't breathe.
He wasn't sure if he was shaking or the ground was trembling. His hearing suddenly worked again, yet it was distorted, mushing the sounds between rifts of static.
"Sta...what's goin...Stan!"
Stan felt something press against his shoulder and he flinched away before growling. The pressure was gone, but he still couldn't breathe. His throat felt raw as he tried to listen to what was around him, to focus on anything other than...it.
"Stanley. It's going to be alright, I promise. You need to breathe. Stanley? Can you hear me? C'mon Ley, nod if you can hear me."
Stan heard Ford's voice above all the white noise and let it anchor him. He did his best interpretation of a nod and heard a...relieved(?) sigh beside him.
"Ley? I need you to breathe, alright? I need you to listen to my voice. Can I take your hand?"
Probably not the best choice of words. Stan growled again, deep and terrifying but obviously fear based. He felt Ford back off and correct himself hurriedly,
"No!," Stan flinched and Ford lowered his voice, "Sorry, no, I'm not going to take your hand off, but I need you to calm down, your going to give yourself a heart-attack at this rate. I need you to breathe with me, alright? One...two...three...C'mon Stan you can do it."
His words bounced around in Stan's skull, taking him back years. The same words had pushed him forward, kept him going when he was younger. He let them do so now and when Stan felt his hand being picked up and pressed against something warm he didn't fight it. He felt the up and down motions and tried to match his unstable breathing to it.
Reality slowly, but surely came back into focus. Stan felt his breathing ease and his heart stop pumping with adrenaline. Now that the fear was gone, his body seemed to be shutting down. He slid further down the wall and felt something soft catch him. His eyes slip shut and he let Sixer's soothing words wrap around his aching mind and soul as he passed out into darkness.
Lol, ending it here just to torture you. No other reason. MWHAHAHA! { This is what happens when I try to write something worth reading, I'm sorry }
Stan: Uh, am I gonna be alright? Your not gonna kill me or somethin'?
Ford: Don't worry, I won't let her.
Fiddleford: I'm not sure how you would stop her, but I certainly hope you will. I don't wanna see any of ya die.
Me: MWHAHAHAH!
I have a question. How does this make you all feel? When I write this stuff, I'm usually laughing, and I wrote this chapter with a straight face, not necessarily feeling anything? So how did this make you feel? Are you screaming? Did it make you laugh, because it sucked? Did it not affect you at all? I really want to know. Thanks for reading! (Don't worry, I'll update soon. Probably. Idk I'm really impulsive, so you never know.)
