Categories > Celebrities > Panic! At The Disco > I hope you like dancing in the rain.
Brendon had always loved the rain.
When he was little, his parents would watch him in curiosity as he would stand by the window, pressing his little palms flat against the cold glass, eyes closed and expression peaceful. It was the only time he ever felt that soothing sensation of nothingness. The one that made him feel like everything was going to be okay, that everything was going to turn out for the better.
Brendon knew for a fact that that wasn’t true, and even though at the time he was only at an innocent seven years old, who knew almost nothing about the world or its infinite secrets yet, he knew that everything in his life wasn’t going to be easy, especially in his case.
He was different.
He had always liked the way he could feel the vibrations against his fingers when it thundered, and the way the water felt when it would fall on his tongue, cold and satisfying. He would stand outside for hours, hand on the railing by the stairs, just soaking in the storm until his hair was sopping wet and his clothes were clinging to his thin and slightly malnourished body.
Those feelings, they were all that kept him living.
He thrived on them.
They were all he had.
He didn’t care when he would start shivering and the tips of his fingers would start to lose their feeling from the cold, or when his mom would call out to him in worry, her eyes wide and alarmed, asking him to come inside where he wouldn’t catch hypothermia.
He just, needed that time. He needed it for different reasons. To feel independent, was one of them. To not always feel like he had to rely on his mother to take care of him, to lead him and guide him. It was like the one time where he felt as if he actually belonged in his own body, and that he could do whatever he wanted. The possibilities were limitless.
It was the only time where he felt like he could actually see, and not feel swallowed by the blackness that would never fade from inside his lifeless grey eyes.
He was a special boy.
He was a curious boy.
He was...a blind boy.
When he was little, his parents would watch him in curiosity as he would stand by the window, pressing his little palms flat against the cold glass, eyes closed and expression peaceful. It was the only time he ever felt that soothing sensation of nothingness. The one that made him feel like everything was going to be okay, that everything was going to turn out for the better.
Brendon knew for a fact that that wasn’t true, and even though at the time he was only at an innocent seven years old, who knew almost nothing about the world or its infinite secrets yet, he knew that everything in his life wasn’t going to be easy, especially in his case.
He was different.
He had always liked the way he could feel the vibrations against his fingers when it thundered, and the way the water felt when it would fall on his tongue, cold and satisfying. He would stand outside for hours, hand on the railing by the stairs, just soaking in the storm until his hair was sopping wet and his clothes were clinging to his thin and slightly malnourished body.
Those feelings, they were all that kept him living.
He thrived on them.
They were all he had.
He didn’t care when he would start shivering and the tips of his fingers would start to lose their feeling from the cold, or when his mom would call out to him in worry, her eyes wide and alarmed, asking him to come inside where he wouldn’t catch hypothermia.
He just, needed that time. He needed it for different reasons. To feel independent, was one of them. To not always feel like he had to rely on his mother to take care of him, to lead him and guide him. It was like the one time where he felt as if he actually belonged in his own body, and that he could do whatever he wanted. The possibilities were limitless.
It was the only time where he felt like he could actually see, and not feel swallowed by the blackness that would never fade from inside his lifeless grey eyes.
He was a special boy.
He was a curious boy.
He was...a blind boy.
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