Categories > Celebrities > My Chemical Romance
Anaesthetized
4 reviewsHe should be breaking into uncountable, bloodstained pieces. But he wasn't. [Oneshot]
5Original
Hi, this is just a little oneshot I came up with last night to get me warmed up with writing again, 'cause it feels like I haven't done enough lately. It's meant to be from Gerard's POV, but there are no names, so take it as you like.
Anaesthetized
Numb.
That’s all he felt. Intensely, grudgingly numb.
There was a whole host of things he should be feeling, but he couldn’t. It was all dulled with this inescapable, dredging numbness. He should be hearing the sorrowful patter of midnight rain against the black windowpane; should be smelling the slurred smell of melting candle wax. He should be feeling the sharp, stinging sensation riddling his wrists to ribbons, and seeing the dark clutter of his dimly lit basement bedroom or tasting the stale loneliness in the smoky, stale air.
He should be breaking into uncountable, bloodstained pieces.
But he wasn’t.
The world, his world, was crashing down, burning, dying, shrieking- and he was just sitting on his bed, twirling the blue scissors round his trembling fingers and watching dully as the rain poured down outside, silently glossing the black window. As if it was all nothing, because he was too numb to feel the enormity of it all.
He should feel so much that it would be killing him; the anger, the agony, the bleak and utter hopelessness- but it was just…nothing. Not even wisps of derailed, rusty smoke from a fire too defeated to burn.
It was as though he had been anaesthetized with his own, weak blood and now he was frozen; his heart silent, his eyes unseeing, his pulse cut out.
He felt utterly incapable of moving from where he was hunched up on his bed- as if he really was frozen; like someone had ripped all his veins out and replaced them with wires that didn’t function.
It shouldn’t be so difficult to simply move; there was so much he could do if he could just get up off the bed. He could go and fight his flaws until they became strengths, he could run through the dark and the rain, he could draw everything he hated until he was exorcised of any pain, he could use his experience of agony to heal and make scabs, he could do everything he’d ever wanted to, or even just soak up the wonderful, stinging, beating, searing of just being alive.
He could fight back.
But he was too afraid. It was all too much, everything crumbling and colliding together until it was all mixed into this explosive abyss that was too much, too much, too much and it was swallowing him up until he was it.
He couldn’t do it anymore. He was tired of failing, he was tired of trying, he was tired of being so cripplingly, wrenchingly alone. He was tired of watching his world tumble down around him.
The dust particles in his dark bedroom, hollowed out by the flickering glow of his candles, were the most company he had. The cold, scared rain sluicing down the black window. The oxygen ghosting his lips. The heartbeat no one heard in his chest. The pen and paper in his shaky, sweaty hands. They were his friends, and he hated each and every one of them.
It was a horrible thick, weighty feeling, as though it was a hard, cold stone weighing down his ribcage and slowly crushing the oxygen out of his lungs- but it was less scary than moving. He knew he would have to face the world sooner or later, he couldn’t live in a cloud of procrastination forever- but he just couldn’t bring himself to move yet. He couldn’t face it.
He knew it was ridiculous, to feel it was so impossible to simply get up off his bed and walk across the room, but he just couldn’t. If he stayed, hunched up into a little ball, eyes shut, completely still with nothing but the thrum of his numbed thoughts against his skull, maybe he could blot it all out. Maybe it would melt away. Maybe the monsters would hollow him out completely so he’d never feel agony again.
Deep down, he knew none of that would happen. He was alive, too scared to live, too scared to die. Limbo was numbness. Sitting, motionless, expressionless, like the inside was empty, when it felt as though there was so much it would obliterate him, eat him, kill him, torment him. That’s what he wanted to do. He couldn’t face it, he couldn’t stand up and fight anymore.
People say the world is amazing, full of opportunities and beauty and things that take your breath away, but for him, the real world was so scary, so scarring, he’d rather just sit alone, with the world anesthetized so he felt nothing.
He'd rather just feel numb.
......
Thoughts? This is something sort of personal for me, so I hope it makes sense to other people. Rates and reviews would be amazing, seriously. Thank you so much for reading
Lucy X_O
Anaesthetized
Numb.
That’s all he felt. Intensely, grudgingly numb.
There was a whole host of things he should be feeling, but he couldn’t. It was all dulled with this inescapable, dredging numbness. He should be hearing the sorrowful patter of midnight rain against the black windowpane; should be smelling the slurred smell of melting candle wax. He should be feeling the sharp, stinging sensation riddling his wrists to ribbons, and seeing the dark clutter of his dimly lit basement bedroom or tasting the stale loneliness in the smoky, stale air.
He should be breaking into uncountable, bloodstained pieces.
But he wasn’t.
The world, his world, was crashing down, burning, dying, shrieking- and he was just sitting on his bed, twirling the blue scissors round his trembling fingers and watching dully as the rain poured down outside, silently glossing the black window. As if it was all nothing, because he was too numb to feel the enormity of it all.
He should feel so much that it would be killing him; the anger, the agony, the bleak and utter hopelessness- but it was just…nothing. Not even wisps of derailed, rusty smoke from a fire too defeated to burn.
It was as though he had been anaesthetized with his own, weak blood and now he was frozen; his heart silent, his eyes unseeing, his pulse cut out.
He felt utterly incapable of moving from where he was hunched up on his bed- as if he really was frozen; like someone had ripped all his veins out and replaced them with wires that didn’t function.
It shouldn’t be so difficult to simply move; there was so much he could do if he could just get up off the bed. He could go and fight his flaws until they became strengths, he could run through the dark and the rain, he could draw everything he hated until he was exorcised of any pain, he could use his experience of agony to heal and make scabs, he could do everything he’d ever wanted to, or even just soak up the wonderful, stinging, beating, searing of just being alive.
He could fight back.
But he was too afraid. It was all too much, everything crumbling and colliding together until it was all mixed into this explosive abyss that was too much, too much, too much and it was swallowing him up until he was it.
He couldn’t do it anymore. He was tired of failing, he was tired of trying, he was tired of being so cripplingly, wrenchingly alone. He was tired of watching his world tumble down around him.
The dust particles in his dark bedroom, hollowed out by the flickering glow of his candles, were the most company he had. The cold, scared rain sluicing down the black window. The oxygen ghosting his lips. The heartbeat no one heard in his chest. The pen and paper in his shaky, sweaty hands. They were his friends, and he hated each and every one of them.
It was a horrible thick, weighty feeling, as though it was a hard, cold stone weighing down his ribcage and slowly crushing the oxygen out of his lungs- but it was less scary than moving. He knew he would have to face the world sooner or later, he couldn’t live in a cloud of procrastination forever- but he just couldn’t bring himself to move yet. He couldn’t face it.
He knew it was ridiculous, to feel it was so impossible to simply get up off his bed and walk across the room, but he just couldn’t. If he stayed, hunched up into a little ball, eyes shut, completely still with nothing but the thrum of his numbed thoughts against his skull, maybe he could blot it all out. Maybe it would melt away. Maybe the monsters would hollow him out completely so he’d never feel agony again.
Deep down, he knew none of that would happen. He was alive, too scared to live, too scared to die. Limbo was numbness. Sitting, motionless, expressionless, like the inside was empty, when it felt as though there was so much it would obliterate him, eat him, kill him, torment him. That’s what he wanted to do. He couldn’t face it, he couldn’t stand up and fight anymore.
People say the world is amazing, full of opportunities and beauty and things that take your breath away, but for him, the real world was so scary, so scarring, he’d rather just sit alone, with the world anesthetized so he felt nothing.
He'd rather just feel numb.
......
Thoughts? This is something sort of personal for me, so I hope it makes sense to other people. Rates and reviews would be amazing, seriously. Thank you so much for reading
Lucy X_O
Sign up to rate and review this story