alfie edward o'callaghan and EPKE ROBERTUS OPPEDYK like this
Post by Deleted on Jul 1, 2021 10:39:56 GMT -7
CW: depression, suicidal thoughts, panic attacks.... a whole lot of bad mental health stuff
April 14th, 2026
It had been a long time in the making, perhaps. While Gus himself might not have noticed at first, many of the events ever since about a year ago had slowly been leading up to this. At first the dream that came true, being able to date the woman of his dreams and them being happy together. How it crumbled without his noticing until it all shattered and broke apart around Christmas. Breaking up and breaking down for weeks, drinking himself into oblivion before throwing himself into endless distractions. The release of al album devoted to his meaningless escapes and the release of the album that he felt so strongly about since it held many personal songs that he felt strongly about. The interviews, the digging into his personal life, the questions. Finally, what could only be described as the meltdown that had been years in the making was finally due.
Gus had finished recording and stepped away from his microphone. He'd sent the music in for editting and with no plans for his evening ahead, realisation finally hit him like a freight train. There was absolutely nothing in the world that he felt like doing. There was nothing he felt interested in and even recording the music had felt like a chore for the first time since he'd started. There was no joy left. He stood still as a statue as that terrifying notion hit him fully and had him realise just how much he was like his mother. Was this what she'd felt like all those years? How had she even kept going? He felt dizzy, a wave of dull panic rushing over him, but washing away in the flood of apathy in his system. He knew he ought to be worried, concerned even, that he felt closer to his mom than ever because he understood her better. The guitar he'd been holding slipped from his hands and fell on the floor. The cry of pain fell on deaf ears as the man left his studio, not bothering to close the door behind him.
He walked to the living room on the second floor, standing on one of the miniature balconies that still held a small gardening set. It wasn't like anybody would be using that. He wasn't wearing a shirt as the chill of evening started to dig into his skin as he lit up a cigarette. What harm was it? He playfully toyed with his phone, an object he really didn't care about. Call in case of emergency, was the idea. He flipped through the contacts, seeing countless names but he didn't feel like actually calling any of them. What good would it do? More people to tell him to be happy? To be grateful for everything he had? More people to tell him just how lucky he was or how many people would kill to be in his shoes? He sighed, fidgetting with the phone as he closed it. No, there was no point in reaching out, was there? He chuckled as he unlocked the phone again, glancing at the many functions he never used. Then he turned around, shrugged an threw the phone off the balcony over his shoulder as he walked back inside. He'd just buy a new one, eventually. If Charlotta didn't kill him before then, although he didn't really see how that ought to be something he should worry about. It was one way to end the dread of existance he was experiencing.
He grabbed the quill he usually used for writing songs and a piece of parchment. He put the quill to paper and sighed deeply. "Dear mom... I finally figured it out. Guess there is a bright side to that somewhere. If this is how you felt every day? Well I don't blame you, although I don't think I ever did. I just felt like I should have stopped it. Not so sure it even was possible by now. It any of that would have made sense. It is feeling more and more like delaying the inevitable. I remember the moments you were happy though, no matter how brief they tended to be. It made you so beautiful and I always felt like there was nothing in the world that was impossible, as long as you would smile. It's been over ten years since I last got to see that. The world always seem so bleak after you left." He sighed deeply, feeling tears shaping in his face. "I used to love it, you know? The attention, the music.. sharing everything I felt because it felt so important. Like maybe I could change something if I tried hard enough. But nothing I write seems to last. Nothing is good enough after a few years, or people take it and change it to some... almalgamation. It's draining me, mom." He bit the inside of his cheek, no longer having enough energy to fight the waves of exhaustion that were washing over him.
"After aunt Angie died.... it was just too much. I felt so tired but I couldn't sleep. They said I almost died, but I guess I never really stopped feeling so exhausted. I was distracted for a time and I put that feeling to sleep. I told myself I'd be fine. Music would give my life meaning. It would give me the power to change things, but all people want is just a song to listen to. They'll take anything but they don't care about the message. Maybe it wasn't the right choice, but I didn't have the grades to become an auror or hit wizard... I didn't have the reputation either. I felt lost, and for some time it felt like music would give me direction." He smiled a bitter and empty smile as he smashed his hand down on the keys of his piano, a discordant loud noise escaping like a wounded animal. "Everything sounds the same, empty and meaningless. Sienna left because she didn't want to deal with the fame, or maybe she couldn't. Once again it seems that I wasn't enough to save someone I care about. I couldn't save you, and I couldn't keep her from getting hurt." He paused for a moment, no desire to drink or smoke on his soul, merely a sense of exhaustion.
He took a very deep breath and closed the cover over the keys, the click almost ominous to his ears. "I've been spending too much time lately, thinking about what I think my funeral should look like. I hated it when they put you in the ground. It felt like they wanted to forget you. Maybe I'm too arrogant, or maybe I'm just scared I'll disappear...." He ran a hand through his hair and chuckled a mirthless laugh as he studied his fingernails for a moment. "I decided I want to be like... preserved in crystal or whatever... burried in a fancy gold and marble mausoleum so ostentatious that people will be forced to remember me just a little bit, until the world ends." He grinned, but there was little actual amusement in it. "I guess if not that, I'd opt for disppearing... being consumed by the brightest fire. I just... I don't want to be burried under the ground until the only part of me that remains is my name, forgotten by just about everybody because nothing I did ever really mattered."
There were a million more things he felt like he should be talking about, but all seemed insignificant as even his wish to talk to his mother was slowly dying down like his wish to be remembered was. He wasn't even sure if it was his wish anymore. "I don't know. I miss you. I feel like maybe you could have helped. Told me things were going to be okay or whatever. People always keep saying that, but it seems they just say that to make themselves feel better. Maybe you were wise after all... maybe disappearing isn't such a bad thing...." With those words he felt a moment of renewal and he grabbed the quill firmly, squeezing it as if it had done him an injustice. Then he threw it away from the paper and instantly got up from the piano bench and walked off to Phil's room.
At least one living soul wouldn't do well without him. Gus couldn't stand the idea of something happening to Phil, although he was fairly certain the tiger would be taken care of. None would let Phil come to harm because it was clear Gus wouldn't ever forgive them. He knew that he'd come back from the dead to haunt people if he feared that Phil wouldn't be taken care of. For a moment he glanced at the lazily snoring tiger, but no joy washed over him. Maybe this was just the way things were now. Nothing had meaning and everything was a bleak and grey world. He settled down on the floor, leaning his head against Phillipe, feeling the soft fur against his face as the tiger slowly in and exhaled. With a sigh Gus settled, feeling like this was the only place that would keep his mind from wandering too far from home and block the way back. He was tired, but he couldn't catch sleep. He must have been lying there for several hours until at long last the slow and steady breathing of his companion lulled him into a shallow and dreamless state, from which he'd wake feeling no less tired. Feeling no less lost and helpless.
