i'm trying desperately to escape this writing drought i'm going through. i can't write a decent piece to save my life, and i'm stuck in this endless limbo of angst-y shit that wants to be poetic but falls short and just becomes eta;kljtw;'j'';dsl. you see how i feel? i'm too lazy to even hit the shift, so you're stuck with this non-capitalized, incredibly boring author's note that you really probably don't even want to read.

also! this may become a series of unlinked angst oneshots. i hope you understand this (i sure as hell don't) and though (again) no names are used, i'm intending it to be massington, unless you want to interpret it otherwise, and if you do wish to do that, please do. thanks for sticking this out with me, and i'm so sorry i've become such a pointless person (:

I. Just a Game

You win.

I admit defeat this time. You know it's rare, but this time I do.

It's storming -- isn't that awfully coincidental? I should've known you would go out with a bang; I didn't expect sunshine and chirping birds, after all. But you've conjured up this wonderful lightning and thunder storm and all I want to do is scream because it's raining, raining, raining and I'm soaked to the bone. At least I know you're satisfied.

It's funny, almost. They're all sitting here with me, but somehow it doesn't feel as if we're attending the same funeral. They all have that disappointed, shocked, discouraged pout perched upon their waxed-for-the-occasion lips. I wear a smirk, almost, because I know you would've hated me to cry. Wouldn't you?

For once, even as the rain pours harderharderharder, I feel nothing. My dress (you know it's expensive. For you, nothing less) is drenched to the point of a sopping, dripping mess that clings messily onto my body. You would've told me to eat breakfast. But in celebration of admitting defeat, I won't eat.

You were never allowed to do this to me; yet you did it anyway. You did this purely for your own sake, and I know it. I don't deserve this.

I don't.

:::

The clouds are clearing out of the sky.

It's not sunny, of course, but the rain has subsided and the terror is spreading through me; I feel like you're leaving, because you sure as hell haven't left yet. The guests have all gone inside (to eat! How dare they), but not before they gave me scolding, condescending looks (how dare you not mourn? How dare you not shed a tear?) I can't explain why I haven't, even though I feel I should.

But you left on purpose, and I can't let you win. So I claim victory by withholding my tears. I won't cry, because you've cheated, and you know it. It's getting harder, though, as the hours pass, because hell, it hurts. It feels like a fire, building up in my chest, running deep into my veins, like venom, curling angrily at the tips, burning deeper and deeper.

I fight it; it's what I do best: retaliate. I watch the sky lighten, I count the breaths I take, but whatever happens, I will not surrender.

I will not.

:::

You deserve my coldness, you deserve every drop.

This iciness is no façade, and it will never drop. You promised me might I quote "forever", and you leave because you're afraid. It's a little drastic, I'll admit, but you've done it and I can't forgive you. You might've won the round, but I'll win the game; we both know this.

You lie in the ground now, still as stone, a crude smile riding the edges of your lifeless lips.

The sob is building up, and what flickered a small flame hours ago is now a full-blown blaze, threatening to erupt, to spill over. I won't give you the satisfaction.

I won't.

:::

They come slowly, plinking onto the ground like little pieces of glass (plink, plink, plink). I'm crying and it's all. your. fault. all. your. fault. You've won for the second time, are you happy?

They're flowing faster, and it's still your fault, because I've had to bottle them up, suppress them for so long that they've morphed into a mountain of emotions. I want to throw something at you, I want to make you feel the pain I feel, but I can't because you're gone and this is all. your. fault.

Your name escapes my lips ("Derrick"), and it surprises even me. It's throaty, it aches, and I feel like taking the word and ripping it to shreds (you deserve it, after all). You're dead and you've left me to become nothing but a mangled wreck of a human.

I'll straighten my shoulders and wipe the tears away because I don't deserve any of this, because I won't surrender, because I'll never give you the satisfaction; because everything is allwrongsowrong.

I'm beginning to think that you're listening.

After all, the rain is falling again and I can hear you whisper into the empty, open sky.

thank you, and good night.