Let It Kill You For a Few Hours
Thanks to looking through hyacinthusau‘s music headcanons and a certain song I’ve been listening to on repeat for the past hour, I just had to write. The idea was swimming around my head all day since I’d first heard the song yesterday, and then when another consideration popped up — what if Josh had chromesthesia? — this whole thing kind of... splurged out.
I have no idea where almost a thousand words came from. Haha, oops.
It wasn’t unusual for Josh to be found in such a position.
His bedroom was tidy enough that floor could be seen, but articles of clothing and random objects that had once been put in their place now crept out from the corners. The fact that his bed was made, drawers and closet doors closed with no sign of material poking through them was a miracle in and of itself. The blinds were cracked open, the warm light of the setting sign gently sweeping inside and warming up the walls.
His bed was made, with himself lying on it. Arms outstretched to the point where fingertips dangled off the edge, he had one leg lazily bent, foot pressed against the sheets as his ankle rested against his other leg gently, keeping the limb somewhat upright. Lazily lidded eyes stared up at the ceiling, the edges of his vision blurred as his whole body relaxed.
On days like this, it was socially acceptable to ignore the neighbours, ignore the mother who worried over his health and made sure to be present in the flat until he felt better, ignore the whole world around him and drown in the sounds, in the music, in the calming lifts and gentle swoops that his speakers produced.
With every sound of the drum kit, with every bass note, he felt his body slip further away from the bad day, from the bad memories, from the prank gone horribly wrong. The prank that was out of line — completely and utterly out of line, how could you have even thought it was okay, that they would forgive you!? —, the prank that caused damage, irreversible damage, damage an apology would never be able to make right.
It wasn’t easy to ignore the way they looked at him. It was in their eyes, the distrust that now settled in their souls whenever they saw his face, recognised his posture or his gait when he was walking however many feet away, when they heard his voice— He’d lost so many. They’d slipped through his fingers, burned at his touch. He felt disgusting when they flinched away from an accidental brush up against him.
He hadn’t lost all of them. Some still wanted to give him a chance, some understood. Some understood but couldn’t do more than that. They pitied him. His disgust in himself only sky-rocketed every time he caught a bit of that pity. Poor boy. Not in his right mind. Not okay. Irreversibly ill with no cure—
It was okay. He’d convinced himself it was okay, because that was the only thing he could do, now. The only thing that allowed him to keep going, even with the guilt and self-loathing that had settled onto his shoulders after that stupid fucking prank.
Eyes closed completely. Drown yourself in the music, let it wash over you, let it paint colours on your eyelids. Let it kill you for a few hours.
The familiar tints of colours that appeared in the darkness of his lids with each note only calmed him further. Pale colours, calm colours, warm colours. Colours he wanted to wrap around his body, around himself. Colours he could use to protect himself from everything around him.
Josh could live like this; constantly alone, frozen in time, seeing and hearing the calmness he could only wish to possess. When was the last time he felt this good in his own skin without help? When was the last time he didn’t feel the need to break every mirror in this godforsaken flat, just so he wouldn’t have to see what it was — who it was that ruined everything.
Nobody was supposed to get hurt. No physical harm should have happened. Okay, yes, maybe a few bruises, a few bumps in their minds they’d have to iron out over the next few years but… Nobody was supposed to be dead, to have been killed and never be able to hear him apologise to hear him explain—
No. They were dead, and here he was, thinking about how he wanted to let them know what was going on inside his head, that he wasn’t okay, that he was damaged goods— Had he ever been goods? Would he have been worth, would he have deserved things if he didn’t have to choke back pills and therapy sessions that made him want to claw away his skin?
Everybody was in pain, everybody was suffering. How he hadn’t died in a “freak accident”, whether from his own actions or those of his friends, yet was the only thing that surprised him anymore. He was giving them time, allowing them to adjust out of the shock, to gather what they know, to maybe put two and two together. To face him again.
But it had been several months. Several months alone with nobody he cliqued with, with nobody he could joke about with or even talk to. He had no one to express his feelings to, to allow his pain to be heard by someone he completely trusted.
The replies to texts he got — if they decided to return them — didn’t satisfy him. They angered him, annoyed him to the point where he had actually chipped his bedroom wall from throwing his phone so hard at it in frustration. He understood they needed time but how much? He wasn’t sure if he had much time left, each second dragging out long enough to be a minute in its own right.
He hadn’t realised that his brows had furrowed, mouth settling into a thin line until he decided to relax his face, feeling his features ease up. Drown in the music. Drown forever and breathe deeply, let it fill your lungs. Let it relax you from deep within.
Let it kill you for a few hours.
