LPfiction

Category Linkin Park

Reading my eyes will say it in many ways by SonataNocturne

A/N: Hello all! This just happened. I don't know... Basically this could be a story but on the other hand it's perfect one shot. What do you think? And who do you think are the characters?



warning for the angst and possible triggers.



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He doesn't want to get up. The ceiling is dirty, the walls are dirty, his mind is dirty. He is here, laying on the bed staring straight up.




He doesn't want to move. He knows it's late and he should but he can't. His legs feel numb, his arms feel numb.




His mind isn't. It travels, races. Finds new places and secrets. Long forgotten memories that should stay hidden. It's painful. He knows they are there, but he doesn't want to face them. When he wakes up at night screaming, he knows the memories were once real. They aren't imagination.




He is drunk. Maybe that's why he is numb. Or maybe it was the cold shower he just took. Cause hot water would have only made it worse. The nausea he has. It could be the vodka but it could also be the fact that he fucked up again. Or that he hadn't eaten anything in whole day. Or days. He can't remember.




He can't remember cause he was drunk also yesterday. He can't remember what happened yesterday. He tries, but his mind focuses on other things. It gives him ideas. Things he should do, things he should say.




But he doesn't. Instead he stays there, the room getting colder. The air is getting heavier, harder to breathe. He can hardly breathe. Or it's just the tears that make is seem like it. Tears should purify, but they don't. They blur his vision and the dirty ceiling looks even dirtier.




He thinks he doesn't let out a single sound but when the door is pushed open and the panicked eyes stare at him he realizes he had. Then the eyes are closer, too close. Staring at him deeper. Hands gripping on to him shaking. The scared voice calling him.




He doesn't see why. He is just there, laying. But the voice is persistent, loud. It says things he doesn't understand. He can't put the words in right order. Somehow they don't make sense but they are familiar. Is it the vodka messing his head again?




The voice gets even louder, more frantic. The fingers that are on his shoulders are digging to his skin. But the eyes are piercing. He can barely see them behind his tears but they are sad and full of fear. And the lips are still moving. More words falling out, words that he couldn't recognize.




His mind was still racing, buzzing but he felt like passing out. Too much vodka. Too much thinking. Too much of the worried eyes staring. Too much of it all and now it was pouring. The tears were burning his cheeks.




Then the hands were gone from his shoulders. He didn't want to move but he felt that the other was there, still in the room. He didn't want to move but now it felt like he even couldn't. Suddenly the hands were on him again, now on his own hands.




They were fumbling and they felt weird. He felt weird, funny. His vision was blurring and the nausea was getting overwhelming. Something wet on his hands. Maybe he spilled the vodka. Or is it the other person. The hands are tight around his, tugging something. He is startled by a scream and then realizes it is his own voice. At least it sounded like his voice. Or could it be again the vodka?




Again the other calls his name. He believes it is his name and turns his gaze towards the sound. The eyes are filled with tears more scared than before. He doesn't understand why his hands are red. His hands, their hands. The white hotel towel is tainted red too. He doesn't understand why he feels like passing out. And why there is so little oxygen suddenly.




Ringing on his ears is deafening and the person was yelling louder. His mouth felt dry like sandpaper and when he opened it he couldn't speak. It was like the words weren't forming properly. But the vodka made him forget the words. What was he about to say?




The person let's go of his hand and picks up his phone. He can see the lips are moving but the ringing in his ears suffocates everything under. Soon the hand was back on his. Crimson liquid everywhere. Somehow there's more of it coming. Soaking, tainting.




His eyelids are getting heavy. That could also be the vodka. He shouldn't have drank so much. So, so much. The hands are shaking him again roughly. The voice was yelling his name again. He wanted to say he is fine but he was tired, confused. His mind was getting cloudy, thoughts slowly subsiding leaving a blank space.




Closing is eyes he felt more peaceful. Now he couldn't see the worried eyes and the crimson liquid. He was shivering now and couldn't decide was it the vodka or the cold shower. He could feel now the hands on his face but opening his eyes wasn't possible. His eyelids weighed too much. The yell almost shook him and for a second he thought he managed to answer. To say something. But he couldn't, not words. He was screaming again. Another yell bounced from the walls, not his voice.




"Don't you fucking dare to give up!"




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