#cyn has problems

[dark-cynder49]

So…I’m gonna be like… not productive at all… sorry y’all

[cyanide-ler-blog]

Memories

You can remember things, even if you don't want to. Even if you've become incredibly skilled at repressing them over the years, they still remain, tucked away in some dusty corner of your mind.

Just waiting to be rediscovered.

You don't mean for it to happen; you want to help Gryff in any way that you can, not lay uselessly on the ground like a kicked puppy. It was just pure bad luck- something that you've admittedly had more than a few brushes with in the past- that the anon happened to mention that one word. Something that, in your already fragile state, was just enough to set you off.

In retrospect, you think to yourself, you're really not as stable as you pretend to be. Sure, you've become rather skilled at hiding it, but a few choice words are all that a person needs to break you down into a sobbing, useless wreck. Or the alternative, a mindless, murderous animal who can barely even recognize his own boyfriend.

You really don't know why people want to be friends with a guy like you.

Though the anon didn't know it, they had unwittingly opened Pandora's Box. As you lay there, sprawled out on the ground with the wounds you inflicted upon yourself in a moment of forgetful stupidity leaking blood, you can't help but remember. It's not much, just bits and pieces. The start of a much greater puzzle. One you would rather remain uncompleted.

You're sitting behind a desk, holding an unlit cigar in one hand while the other is scribbling away at paperwork with a pen. You don't actually like smoking, but someone- who may or may not be your Mother- told you that it would be good for your "image." Quite frankly, you don't really buy into the idea, but if looking like a future cancer patient will sell more thneeds, then you're more than willing to keep up the charade.

Besides, smoking was manly, right?

"No! No, no, no!" Your Mother slams her palms down on your desk, her face mere inches from your own. "Oncie, you can't be serious!"

You shrink under her harsh glare. Even a successful businessman can feel terror when faced with the wrath of an angry Mother. "I'm just saying that he may have a point. I mean, I like making money as much as the next guy, but..." You rub at your shoulder awkwardly, trying to hide how uncomfortable she was making you. "We can't make more thneeds if we don't have anything left to fashion them out of..."

Your eyes snap open, and you take a sputtering gasp, trying to push air into your lungs. It's hard, much harder than it should be, and you don't know why. Everything feels wrong, off-kilter in some way. There's something pressed against your back, a flat surface of some sort that is absolutely freezing.

Actually, now that it's been brought to your attention, you realize that your entire body seems to be abnormally cold. Like you've spent the past couple of hours shoved in a freezer or something. Shuddering slightly, you try to get up, only to realize something feels very, very wrong.

Looking down at the rest of your body, it only takes you a few moments to realize what the problem is.

Your organs. You can see them. The skin on your torso has been peeled back, muscle and flesh carved away like it was nothing. Pulling your eyes away from the gruesome scene- it's not real, it can't be real, you're still very much alive, after all- you take a quick glance at your surroundings.

You're in a morgue, you realize after a few seconds. The thing you're laying on is a table made for preforming autopsies.

You open your mouth to scream. Nothing comes out.