You got soooo close, but this is past mending. You got the baaaaad ending.
I have too much hope inside my system. Please promptly take it out by writing a bad ending. The topic may be anything(ex: a what-if of your main story, a random scenario, a short fanfic etc.), as long as the situation is evidently hopeless with no way out for the main parties involved.
PS: I got deja vu from making this prompt, thought it might've been done before. A quick search comes up with nothing tho, do inform me if you did find a thread with similar intentions already.
Air fizzes up your throat, a bass edge to it vibrating from your stomach. It swells. With air, with pain traveling up its walls? It is unknown what your gut clenches with.
You glance to the door nervously, and then back to trying to do something productive. Your breathing stops because you don't have enough focus - too sick, all meanings meant - to do what you want and to breath, which you don't want. The expectations lead to phantoms, expecting someone you know to interupt what you are doing. Little ones, old ones, controlling ones will politely knock to make you listen. Your mouth opens, air moving in and out as you try to find the words because you must respond. You have no choice but to respond.
The rage at this senseless obligation... everything from the corpse of an anxiety attack stifled in its infancy to the visceral disgust with yourself that you have to get the motivation to get your bum off of your bed... it fuels your pained haze.
The cold pain everyone feels worse than you clutches at your chest. The winnowed remnant of the hatred loops around the bones of your rib cage, incandescent cold colors furiously freezing your chest. Your eyes tremble and dry in the lukewarm air. They burn at the edges with a heady numbing. A grin stretches your face as you work through the crumbling masks at your disposal. So perhaps the burning of your eyes was due to venomous joy scuttling across the wrinkles spiderwebbing around your eyes.
You walk out the door.
No one has spoken, but needles are already being sunken into your ears.
Then they talk.
Nails on a chalkboard
screech.
You don't remember what they said. Or what you said. You screech internally "I'm fine, I'm fine. Leave me alone! I'm fine! I'm fine! You don't need to ask me anything! I'm fine! It's pointless! Everything is so pointless! There is no problem. I'm fine. I'm fine. I'm fine."
You rush down the stairs, hoping they don't say one more thing.
And then they don't say anything! Yippee! And you worry that they will talk more later. Or right as you do something productive. Screeching. More screeching.
You bang your fist against your shoulder in a mime. In your happy dreams, you got a sharper thing than you can get your hands on. You are a regular clown, you promise yourself. A snigger escapes your lips.
You lean back into the soft cushions, sinking super de dooper far, trying to hold back laughter.
"Ahhh..." you sigh contentedly.
You won't achieve any pther dreams, but you still have something concrete to work towards for the rest of your life.
