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Save Me From Myself

Summary:

A couple of lines sketched messily across the page.

A face, maybe. Sure.

Connor’s always been decent at those.

(A sketchbook passes from hand to hand. The pages fill.)

Notes:

hiiiiiiiiiii!!! :-) feels good to be back
me n my ultra-mega-bff YellowMustard have decided to COLLAB this is v exciting
let us know what you think so far!!!! the next chapter should be out soon and this first one is pretty short

come talk to me! c-e-c-r-o-p-i-a on tumblr :-)
YM has a tumblr as well - theyellowestmustard

thanks for reading <3

Chapter 1: Prologue

Chapter Text

A couple of lines sketched messily across the page. 

 

A face, maybe. Sure. 

 

Connor’s always been decent at those. 

 

A couple of marks to suggest a chin, then the jaw, then the ears—

 

Too big. Fuck. Eraser shavings are scattered across the page and Connor wipes at them more harshly than he probably should. 

 

Okay, so he’s got the ears, now onto the actual face, which. Fuck symmetry, honestly. 

 

The first eye isn’t bad, as it usually isn’t, but the attempt at the other eye is just wrong and awful and lopsided and Connor just wants to rip the whole page out now because he had something decent looking and now there’s a giant fucking dark spot that he can’t erase away because he pressed too hard. Because he always presses too hard. 

 

His family would say that, too. 

 

In a bout of frustration he quickly tears the page out of the sketchbook, crumbling it up and tossing it across his room with a groan. 

 

For a moment he feels bad, but then he’s just angry at himself. He’s angry because he can’t fucking draw and he’s angry that his family sucks and he’s angry that he’s not normal, he’ll never just be normal . He can’t have a normal life, he can’t have the things that functioning members of society have like actual friends or a social life or a romantic partner, maybe, and he’s just. Angry. 

 

He’s angry at the world.

 

But, like an idiot, Connor flips to the next page and tries again. He gives himself another chance. What’s one more? 

 

And as he’s rather aggressively putting in the detailing of the hair he ends up ripping through half the paper with his pencil, which kind of represents his entire life, really. He considers chucking his pencil and the sketchbook straight out the window or dumping it in the river that runs through Ellison where no one could ever find it, but before he can even think about that he puts pencil to paper and covers the entire page in one giant, angry word:

 

FAILURE. 

 

Because that’s what he is.

 

But. 

 

Maybe not for long, if he plays his cards right. 

 

No, there’s one thing he can be sure he doesn’t fail at. Not if he does it right. 

 

He’s still gripping the tiny book in his hands, arms shaking and knuckles yellowing from how hard he’s pressing his fingers into the worn leather cover. He can’t put it down, it seems, and. 

 

He should at least leave someone with an explanation, right? Even if it’s some random unsuspecting passerby who just wanted to go on a nice hike and smell the fresh air. 

 

Connor reopens the little sketchbook, flipping through the pages. How is he going to do this? Is he just going to leave this open to the right page next to his body at that stupid fucking park? Leave it somewhere hidden so no one has to experience his corpse and also his note at the same time? Does he even care? 

 

He’s already planned it all out, is the thing. He can’t change tactics now. It’s happening at the park, tonight, around 3 am, and it’s going to be the first thing he’s ever actually succeeded at.

 

And throughout all this planning, he’s never really stopped to think about explanations. He figures everything’s pretty clear already. 

 

But people talk. Especially teenagers. They want to know the why and the where and the how, and if that’s the last thing Connor does, he should probably do it right. 

 

And then Connor’s writing the note in his head. Maybe he’ll start it with to whoever’s had the misfortune of finding me. Or maybe to whoever’s had the misfortune of knowing me . That seems more accurate. Will he write to his sister? His parents? The assholes at school, the teachers who didn’t believe in him? That one janitor that let him sleep in the supply closet for his free period when he was so fucked up he couldn’t walk straight?

 

Realistically, does he have anyone to write to?

 

As he’s flipping through absentmindedly, a page gets caught on his thumb. He glances down, as is human nature, and he has to blink his eyes into focus because. 

 

The top corner. Folded over like you’d mark a page in a novel. 

 

He pushes it back with a single finger.