Information

Stoner has a minion!

Sam the Fire Carrier

Stoner
Legacy Name: Stoner

The

Nightmare Tigrean
Owner:

nervous

Age: 5 years, 11 months, 4 weeks

Born: April 20th, 2018

Adopted: 4 years, 2 months, 4 weeks ago

Adopted: January 19th, 2020

Statistics

Level: 7
Strength: 16
Defense: 15
Speed: 15
Health: 15
HP: 15/15
Intelligence: 102
Books Read: 102
Food Eaten: 0
Job: Unemployed

Depression Hotline: 1-630-482-9696
Suicide Hotline: 1-800-784-8433
LifeLine: 1-800-273-8255
Grief Support: 1-650-321-5272
Domestic Hotline: 800-799-SAFE (7233)
Samaritans (for any problem): 08457909090 e-mail jo@samaritans.org
Childline (Under 18): 08001111
Mind Infoline: 0300 123 3393 e-mail: info@mind.org.uk
Mind Legal Advice: 0300 466 6463 legal@mind.org.uk
Cruse Bereavement Care: 08444779400 e-mail: helpline@cruse.org.uk
SA Crisis England & Wales: 0808 802 9999 1 e-mail info@rapecrisis.org.uk
SA Crisis Scotland: 08088 01 03 02
Helpline 1: 604-872-3311 (Greater Vancouver)
Helpline 2: 18666613311 (Toll free-Howe Sound/Sunshine Coast)
Helpline 3: 1-866-872-0113 (TTY)
Helpline 4: 1-800-SUICIDE (784-2433) (BC-wide)
Website: here

code by

Maruun
bg from patternvomit
clipart by cal
font by googlefonts
edits, art, and story by

nervous

The themes of this story may be disturbing to some readers.
Implied drug use & other miscellaneous implied themes.
Reader discretion is advised.

I am so tired. I can barely tilt my head up enough to see the time on the alarm clock. It's 4 am. I'm fucked.
The wind outside rattles the rickety shutters. They bang and cry out against the crumbling brick walls that is the prison that I have built for myself. I built the prison for myself, and I don't even have the keys. I don't know who has the keys. I don't care that much though. It's comfortable here. I have made a home here.
It smells like an ashtray in my bedroom. Old smoke clouds up the space in the room that is me, a mattress, and some ugly dolls sitting on a dresser my grandmother got me. They reminded her of me. I have no fucking idea why.
I pull my blanket up between my thighs and squeeze it, wondering what the hell I'm going to do. I don't know what I'm going to do. Probably something stupid.
I hate being predictable.
I shake my head at nothing, no one, maybe at myself, maybe not even at her. I push myself up by my elbows and run my hand through my hair. A bit comes out, wrapped around my fingers, and I sprinkle it onto the floor next to me. It used to worry me when my hair started falling out. Now I know it happens when I get bad again. I feel nauseated from the smell of old blood and cigarette smoke that clings to my skin and crawls under the tears in my fingernails. It slips into my body and festers there. I cannot get to it. I cannot change it. I can accept it.

I'm doing okay today.
I know the holidays are coming up. I decide not to think about that when I walk to the bus stop. The wind whips around my hair reducing my vision to the gray world around me through cracks between dead brown fibers. My hair fucking stinks. I doubt anyone will come close enough to me to smell it though. Even if they did, fuck 'em anyway. I'm getting better. I'm always getting better.
The soles of my right shoe is coming apart at the seam and flopping around awkwardly under my foot. Little clumps of gray sludgey snow get jammed between my sock and the bottom of my sole. My heel is turning numb, but the bus will be warm.
I don't have to be out for long today anyway, I just have to pick up some food. I haven't gotten food in a few months, and my spine hurts when I lean against things. My skin clings sadly to my skeleton like melted candle wax and I don't feel very beautiful. I decide to get pies at the store. Pies make people fat. I'd like to be at least a little fat to fill out my bras again.
On the bus, the world runs by me, gray, gray, gray, with small glimpses of Christmas lights glistening against the white-washed sky. I think it's really stupid that people put lights on their house, but it still makes me smile a little.
I lean my forehead against the window and let out a breath. It steams up the window in a soft circle against my dead skin frosted lips and I remember that I'm alive.

My grandmother visits me on and pretends she doesn't notice that my apartment fucking stinks, I fucking stink, and there are tiny floral patterns of brown blood scattered around my cheap fiber carpet. She gives me another doll, says she loves me, and quickly excuses herself.
I hold the doll in my hand and roll my eyes, tossing it onto the dresser where the other dolls are. I liked dolls maybe 10 years ago when I was 12. I think my grandmother feels better when she remembers the time I used to like dolls.
My lips are cracked all over and I suck on the inside of my cheek where it tastes salty and warm as spit and whatever else slips over my tongue.
It's so quiet in my apartment after she leaves that I can hear the blood chugging through my veins and my heart beating against my sternum.
I pull myself upright from my mattress and take the few strides to the kitchen. I pour myself a glass of milk and drink the whole thing. It makes me shiver and breathe down puke. Then, I sink down to the floor where I stay for awhile. I have nowhere to go.

It is now the new year, but I'm still the old me. I don't know how to get rid of her.
I check my mail for my government stipend and there is none. It's just because the holidays, I think, and close my mailbox back up.
I kick my shoes off in the hall before my apartment door. I stare at the door for a second, glaring at the crooked numbers that are branded on my being under the harsh yellow light of the hall. I am Number 167.
When I step into my apartment, the air is just as cold as it is outside, only the outside air is crisp, and the air inside my home is stifled and thick with filth.
I trail my fingers over the wall as I walk, counting my steps to my dresser. I drag this time out it takes me to get to the dresser, in the top drawer, where I keep my happiness. I want to make it last.
I don't turn on any lights. I don't think I need to. I know every corner of my home. I know every ounce I have. I know what's good and what's bad for me, even though my grandmother says I have no idea. She has no idea. She's the one that has no fucking idea. I want her to die already.
I do what I need to do, and lie back on my mattress, my coat crinkling and rumpling under my back, but I don't care. I fall in love with the sight of the ceiling above my head and I am thankful I still have breath in my chest. For now, I am thankful.

I wake in a pool of sweat this morning. There is light streaming from my one window in rectangular panes across my face and I squint against them, tossing my arm over my eyes. I must have slept well into the afternoon, but today I have nowhere to go. My head throbs and my throat is scratchy. All I want is to sleep more. When I wake again, maybe my skin will fit around my bones. For now, it is shrink wrapped around my skeleton far too tight and it is making it hard to breathe.
I close my eyes and turn my back to the window until I hear horrible knocking sounds on my door. I cover my ears with my hands. Go away. Go away. Go away.
The knocking continues, and I heave as I try to stand up. My knees buckle and I shoot upright, as straight as my spine will allow, and shuffle to the door.
When it opens, he is standing there with my mail.
I can't move for a moment. I stare dumbly at him and my lips part slightly as if doing that would suck in enough breath to keep me awake.
"Jesus, you look awful."
I snatch my mail from his hands and snap, "I told you to stop coming around me."
"Your mail is literally spilling out of the box, I am just trying to help you."
"Thanks," I say and close the door, catching one last glance at his face, contorted in confusion and disgust. Well, good for you. I'm disgusted too.
"You're never going to get better if you keep doing this, you know?" He calls at my back.
I toss my mail on my kitchen counter and crawl back to my mattress.

Barren