a dream is only a dream
#1
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I've been writing this post for two weeks. I've decided that I'll never be happy with it, so here it is. This is dated the first of December. In case you missed it, Ahren overdosed Laruku on morphine and heroin.

It was funny somehow, how easily things came into being and how easily things slipped away. It was funny, too, how hard they tried and how much they cared, even when they pretended they didn't-- they were trying to deny it, and they cared enough to try. He couldn't feel the cold anymore. The fire had long since died, and he could hear the wind outside; he could hear the snow outside, falling steadily, but he was numb to the cold. Lying there, he was only vaguely aware of the floor, the worn carpet, and the dust. Nothing felt solid, but he could imagine the ceiling above him and its aged wood, its broken light fixture. And beyond it, he could imagine the sky, grey with clouds, and the black night behind it. Beyond the night, he saw death.


And he hoped that what he saw was the real ending to a story that had gone on for too long.


Everything felt insignificant. There was no desperation this time, no shaking hand clutching a too-dull blade. There was no anger; it had been a long time since he remembered being angry. The frustration was far away. The regret was still there, but even that was subdued. Regret was a pretty useless sentiment if nothing changed because of it, and he had always been too selfish to change himself. Everything seemed to blur together anyway. Four and a half years and all the people he'd hurt along the way. There was no point in remembering; those were things that didn't deserve to be remembered. He was too tired to regret anymore. It didn't have to be dramatic.


There was only the same quiet acceptance he'd carried with him since the fire, the same emptiness. He was only waiting this time. He wasn't running towards the cliff, and he wasn't backing away. There was no need. It comforted him to know that there wasn't much he was leaving behind. He imagined that the scattered remnants of Clouded Tears mostly believed he was already dead. He hadn't seen Conri since the day they'd met by the edge of the forest, and he had never visited Twilight Vale, or any number of other packs that had popped up since the spring. There would be no one to miss him.


Laruku wasn't sure how much he had been able to make up for his lackluster parenting when Rachias had been younger, but he was satisfied enough knowing that she would not be alone when he left. It was what he had wanted from the beginning. Iskata would forget about him as well; it wasn't like they had ever been particularly close. She had nothing to miss. He had never been there anyway. There was a deep, masochistic comfort in knowing that he was no longer important in anyone's lives. There was comfort knowing that there weren't many people still alive that would remember him at all. When they died, there would be no one left to say he'd ever existed at all. Time would go on, and he wouldn't be there.


The cold continued to feel distant, but the heat was seeping away now too. There was no temperature, only numbness and darkness. His eyes were open, and he saw white where he knew was only black. The snow was coming down harder. The emptiness was comforting. The only thing he was afraid of was ghosts, because he knew they existed. The man supposed there was no point in dwelling on it though. The moment felt peaceful; the night felt calm. Even if it was only for a little while, he wanted to believe that this was really the end. A nihilist, all he wanted to believe in was nothing.


His life didn't flash before his eyes. The voice in the back of his head was quiet. He had no lingering visions of things that had never come to pass. He was grateful. So he smiled.


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