LPfiction

Category Linkin Park

Happiness by Bird Girl

Take My Hand And Don't Let Go

Just a little ficlett relating to my emotions lately.


~


Some days, he felt like it was his fault. His fault that he felt empty inside. His fault that he couldn't cope. His fault that he was alone. His fault that no one loved him. His fault that he couldn't love himself. All his fault.


Some days, he would sit alone in his bedroom, sprawled out under a mountain of blankets, and yet he still felt cold.


Some days, he couldn't bring himself to eat.


Some days, he buried his face in his pillow and waited for it all to end.


Some days, he'd open up his curtains for the first time in months so he would feel something warm and bright on his neglected form.


Some days, he would be happy.


Some days, he wondered why he was just a shell, why nothing could never fill him up.


Some days, he went out with friends and would laugh.


Some days, he stayed alone in his room, hugging himself tightly as he was too numb to cry.


Some days, he wondered why he couldn't be happy. Why did it have to be him.


He'd never done anything to make the world hate him so.


He wondered why no one understood.


Some days, he'd feel a comforting hand on his shoulder and soft words whispered in his ear.


Some days, he'd turn around to see the man that had ventured into his dark little space.


Some days, they would lay together, sometimes in silence, sometimes not.


And that was okay.


Some days, his best friend would wrap an arm around his waist and pull him to his feet, murmuring that it was bad to stay in bed all day.


Some days, he'd follow his friend out the door, taking slow steps on unsteady feet.


Some days, the sun was too much and he'd turn back, fleeing to the familiar arms of his bed.


But sometimes, he wouldn't.


Sometimes, he would square his shoulders and hold his head high, pretending that he was confident.


Sometimes, he believed himself.


And when his legs buckled beneath him and he fell to the floor, his friend was there to pick him up.


Sometimes he was carried, sometimes he had the strength to carry himself.


But always, his friend seemed to be there.


Always in the background, a gentle smile pulling at the corners of his lips.


Always his friend was filled with kind, encouraging remarks, never the harsh insults he was accustomed to hearing.


Sometimes, when he fell, he'd look up, blinking slowly as his friends large form towered over him.


And he felt so small.


So insignificant.


"Mike," he'd say, "just leave me here. I'm fine."


And Mike would shake his head sadly and reach out his hand. "If I left you here, I'd be leaving a part of myself, too."


"But I'm not worth it," he would whisper, voice trembling. Maybe out of fear. Maybe out of joy. He didn't really know.


"Chester," Mike would sigh, "You'll be happy if you get up."


"What is happy?" Chester couldn't recall feeling such an emotion. All he could remember was emptiness. A void in his soul that couldn't be filled.


And Mike would respond, "happiness is when you look up at the sun and feel its warm rays engulf you. Happiness is when you take that first sip of hot chocolate and you can feel your soul stirring. Happiness is when you take another step from where you've been. Happiness is when you dust off your knees and keep going, even if you don't know what lies ahead."


Chester paused for a moment, staring at his bruised hands. Then he looked up at Mike. "Happiness is when I'm with you."


And he stood up.


His knees shook and his steps were unsteady.


But he knew that wherever he went, his best friend would follow.

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