qunqun
Give me your herbs, worm.
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basics
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tags
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TL;DR: Don't hate me please.
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tl;dr
Auguste
Trigger warning: Suicidality. Mentions of parental abuse and violence.
Auguste never cried.
No, really, this was a point for him. This was a thing about him that was unspoken, but it had carried him through the street gang and the abuse and the death he’d had to process all by himself.
Auguste never cried. At least, he used to cry, and then he didn’t.
When he’d finished his first ballet performance and won, he’d cried. That was the last time.
By a long shot.
See, the funeral had been open casket. And he’d been about to start sobbing right then and there.
And then his mother had tightened her grip on his arm, enough to break his attention away from his father’s corpse, hard enough to bruise later. And she’d whispered something in his ear.
“Your family is watching. And they need you to be strong. Don’t cry, you can cry when this is all over.”
So he swallowed his tears and settled into a feeling of complete numbness as he walked through the funeral, like a puppet being animated by a greater being.
He hadn’t been able to cry when he’d gotten home, because that was when his mother had her breakdown.
He hadn’t been able to cry the next day because that was when his grandparents came knocking at their door and his mother had argued long and hard with them to keep custody of him.
After all, it hadn’t been over yet. None of it had been over yet.
Auguste didn’t cry, because it hadn’t ever been over, and he was waiting… praying for the day that it could be over.
Which meant that when there was a lot of emotional stress, he kept it like a lead ball in his chest as it dragged him down down down to the pits of Hell until he was standing on some kind of precipice that he didn’t want to be on.
Thoughts were swirling around his head today.
You’re a terrible son. You’re worthless. Nobody cares about you. Everyone hates you.
Fun stuff, he knew. But hey. This is what happens when you can’t afford therapy, right? So instead, he was doing the next best thing: going on a long ass walk.
Shadows were following him. But they were always following him. On bad days like this, it felt like he was constantly getting followed. Constantly being watched with a million eyes that just wanted to watch him burn.
The PTSD was really bad today. He almost could see people following him out of the corners of his-
Wait.
When his therapist had diagnosed him, she’d said that his symptoms included flashbacks and paranoia (which fed into a severe anxiety) and depression and suicidal ideation and night terrors (which led to insomnia) and a self-destructiveness.
Nowhere, had she ever said that he suffered from visual hallucinations. And quite frankly, he trusted her judgment way more than he trusted his.
A turn into an alleyway, he could hear footsteps behind him. More than one pair.
So it wasn’t just him.
“Hands where we can see them, big guy.” What a fucking pain. His hands slowly went behind his head.
Honestly, this was sad. A former gang member getting mugged by two… idiots. Seriously. None of his entire figure said that he had fat pockets or an easygoing nature.
“Wallet. Don’t try to run.” One of them was wielding a knife. Well. A little poker that probably wouldn’t be able to stab a mouse. But whatever.
“I don’t have any mon-” Auguste began
“Don’t argue with me”
Okay. Fair enough. They’d find out for themselves. He slowly reached down and pulled out his very empty wallet. Maybe there was a whole… 5 dollars? Wow. What a haul, guys.
A punch to the stomach. And then a blow to the head and Auguste was thrown to the ground. Rage seeped into his veins, as he slowly picked himself back up into a crouched position.
Something in his fucked up head clicked. Suddenly this wasn’t a mild inconvenience to his day. Suddenly, they were in Paris and these people wanted to tear apart the group that were the only ones that ever understood who he was and they needed to just fucking die die die die die die die die-
To be quite honest, he doesn’t remember what happens next. Next thing he knew, he was on top of one of the fuckers and beating their fucking heads in, blood pumping through his veins as he pounded into one of their skulls.
A falter.
What was he doing.
Paris bled away. And he was straddling a mugger, their partner trying to wrestle him off. There was so much screaming and the person underneath him was moaning in the type of pain where he was barely processing it at all.
What had he done. What had he done what-
Pain in his side.
A shove off of the person as he regained his footing. The one still standing was running away, the wallet left abandoned on the ground.
Auguste looked down. There was a knife sticking out of him, where there shouldn’t.
One thought ran through his brain.
“Huh. That shouldn’t be there.”
Shock had probably set in. And then he realized something:
He had to die.
He was just as bad as when he’d first been full of rage and anger and tried to hurt everyone around him. He’d always been compared to an attack dog and… what did you do to dogs that were overly aggressive?
When stabbed, you’re not supposed to pull the knife out, because that leads to you bleeding out faster…. He knew this.
Auguste pulled the knife out, as it clattered to the ground. He fell to his knees and collapsed as pain overwashed him. Choking him. He was bleeding out.
Why wasn’t he crying? Because this was it. This was the end.
His eyes were fluttering closed.
A woman screamed.
It wasn’t the end.
----------------------------------------------------------------------
Auguste woke up, groggy and disoriented. Beeping noises, sterile smell. Hospital. Figures. It wasn’t the first time. A glance around. American television?
The memory of what happened slammed into him like a truck. And then his icy eyes slid over to a man sitting patiently at the foot of his bed.
“Hey there, son.” Oh. A detective. Probably came to take his statement or whatever.
He didn’t acknowledge him with a response. He didn’t talk to cops. Snitches get stitches and all that.
“You wanna tell me what happened, son?”
Auguste didn’t even bother making eye contact. He should’ve died. Why wasn’t he dead.
“You can talk to me.”
No. He wasn’t a fucking snitch.
“You know what day it is, son?”
What.
“It’s a Tuesday.”
What.
“You’ve been out of it for a whole 48 hours.”
WHAT.
Auguste made eye contact. His mouth opened and a hoarse noise came out. The detective quickly offered him water as he tried to sit up. “Easy, easy.”
Pain flared in his side.
Some choice words in French came out as he spilled the water on himself.
Eventually though, he managed to wet his throat.
“I have rehearsal tomorrow.”
“Son, you aren’t gonna be getting on your feet for a while. You got stabbed-”
“I need to go.”
“What about who did this to you, son.”
“...”
“Can’t you tell me?”
“...” And then a thought entered his head. He looked the officer dead in the eyes. “I did it to myself.”
Slight blink of stunned silence, and the realization dawning on the detective’s face that he wasn’t going to get anything out of the demure boy despite his seeming pliantness. Pulled into a frown.
Auguste blinked twice, a flinch, and pride at the same time that he managed to psych someone out. That he still had it in him. And then immediate guilt. He was supposed to be better than this bloody mess of dominance.
Whoops.
“Do you want to contact anybody?”
There was nobody for him. There was nobody that he could even fathom that might even care a little bit.
“... A cab to get me home.” Wrong answer, the pursing of concerned lips from his elder. A slight flinch as the detective shifted on the bed closer to him. Trying to become more personal and gentle. People didn’t get the chance to loom over him often. He hated it.
“Son. You need to get treated.” Broken. Weak. The detective didn’t mean it, but when did Auguste ever play by rationality? “Be nice to the nurses. They’ll take care of you.”
A half a week later, Auguste was finally allowed to contact someone to get him home.
So…. who the fuck was he going to contact?
… He didn’t have any other option.
Fuck.
code by valen t.