you're lonely, aren'tcha?

they say feeling alone in a group is worse than feeling alone on your own, so i can see why you'd hole yourself up out here, in the stormy rain. but i won't let you escape that easily.

see, i gathered them all up to make sure you don't get stuck in your head. you're your own worst enemy, sometimes. specially when you're brooding like this.

so you're not allowed to imagine what they think of you anymore, they're all here already. their presence can drown out whatever your mental version of them is telling you. and communication is key. physically.

want a hug?

group hug?

isn't this much better than the demons in your head? the ones that tell you all those rude things, i mean. you're not good enough, they just tolerate you, you're a burden, you should kill your lungs with nicotine and your liver with dogs sweat. that's what we call raisin distillate. didn't you see the corgi logo? well, i noticed a bottle went missing. you're the only one sneaky enough to do that.

i wouldn't be mad if you took the wine, but this stuff is for drinking with friends. so come here, let me give you a hug. us, actually, group hug.

you've never known where to look when hugging someone, have you? seems it's been amped up 'cause there's more people to hug. your eyes dart around, from staring at the sky to the sea and back to the wood under your feet. but it doesn't feel bad. it's nice to be held by those that care for you. awkward, but nice.

you finally find something to focus on when you see the patch of red blood on my shirt.

Did you know this story is from Royal Road? Read the official version for free and support the author.

it spurts onto the wood you were staring at. it mixes with the droplets of rain. it breaks your concentration, though you were spacing out anyway. you follow the flow of crimson red liquid up to the wound, right in my ribcage. you see my face pale. you feel your fury erupt.

you search them all. you line them up on the edge of the hull and go through them one by one. the stormy sea might as well be the abyss, and it's all you let them stare at. your anger doesn't allow you to think of them as beloved friends anymore. you find nothing, at the end. but they do. they find the bloody scissors in your jacket.

your face is paler than mine now.

but you don't get time to question things and understand and lose your marbles. "Hallelujah!" you hear the little catholic boys sing as our ship hits the church. but it wasn't meant to be the iceberg to our Titanic. no, we swerve right and then left and crash into the Moon instead.

and with a burst, the wood sets on fire. as if the rest wasn't enough already.

your mind only gets to make one last

insignificant observation before the flames take you over. as you stare at its lunar beauty, you realize every time a poet described a whore as "paler than the Moon" he was full of fucking bullshit and probably trying to get a discount. but contrary to your expectations, the flames don't drag you down to meet Lucy.

you fly upwards instead.

through the clouds, you float. you doubt you were forgiven. murder most foul isn't wiped from the records so easily. maybe it happened too quick, so the angels didn't have time to write down your sins. maybe that's why so many people kill their kin and off themselves after, just free tickets to the pearly gates for the whole family. cheaper than any vacation.

you see them now, the gates. words aren't even close to adequate for describing the sight. "Oho ho ho!" you hear from the other side. you see Him come. you see Him put his hands on the long golden bars with a smile on his face. you see Him prepare to welcome you.

and then you wake up, because god isn't fucking real.

but that's fine. He still loves you. and i do too. i love you. and i'm here. and you are too.

so, want a hug?