starter for @murder-popsicle
———————— three months, eleven days, twelve hours and nine minutes. that's how long it'd been since he'd last heard his mother's verse and it weighed on him. how was he supposed to keep this up? keep on living when the only person who truly loved him was gone?
it all seems so pointless now. the idea that anyone could ever get better. that life would get better. so far, it only seemed that life was getting worse and, at least if he stayed here, safe in is his mother's bed....it could at least hurt a little less.
he hasn't left the house in weeks. hasn't needed to thanks to his mother's canned good supplies. he doesn't know if he'll actually ever leave the house again at this point. there's nothing for him out there and maybe it's time to accept that.
he slips out of the bed to get another glass of whatever was left in the bottle he'd opened last night, ready to do the same as he's done the day before and the day before that. even when he hears the knocking, he tries his best to tune it out. they'll go away eventually.