asanctuary: (∫ divination)
Moritz ([personal profile] asanctuary) wrote in [community profile] herbgarden 2015-11-04 09:54 pm (UTC)

that thread we talked about for so long (do you want content warnings bc this is a giant cw)

There isn't anything noticeably spectacular about today. The sky is bright and crisp with minimal clouds, dead leaves rustling across streets where the groundspeople can't quite get to them. It's warm enough that Moritz is wearing a polo and pants and not really regretting the decision to leave the light sweater home for the day, even in early-November. Moritz's backpack has its usual pens and pencils, a miniature stapler and a Mellow Yellow bottle, currently emptied of its 2:1 ratio of soda-to-vodka.

The student shuttle is typical, both in amount of bodies cramped into it and amount of exhaust hissing and sighing out of it at every change in speed. Moritz's routine trip home is made even easier when he doesn't bother bringing his truck onto campus and instead takes the shuttle to his dorm - today his mind is buzzing too loudly to allow for driving. He's glad he took the bus, even if today the people pressing in on every side make him sick - with alternating adoration and loneliness.

When he steps down to the sidewalk at his stop, his head swims for just a minute, and it could just as easily be the post-adrenaline endorphins as it could be the booze. Moritz made the decision last night, and it had been the most clear his head had felt while he was alone in weeks. All day it's lingered over him, acting as both stimulant and sedative. Right now he feels a crushing freedom, a fascination that blinds him to his fears without actually getting rid of them. Anything for the distraction.

He doubles back to the crosswalk, breath hitching at the thought of dying by getting hit by a car - so selfish, he could never, ever, so loud and traumatic for the driver and everyone around and onlookers and-- - and he stares at the ground, his shoes, the streetlamp, anything else while he waits to cross. There's not much of a crowd here, it's not so much like the school hallways and certainly not like the bus, but he still has to mumble a pitchy apology to someone he bumps with his backpack.

The signal across the street is a red palm warning them back, and he pulls at the left strap of his bag while he waits. If the foot traffic goes as smoothly as it usually does, then in just over an hour:

Moritz should be dead.

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