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xxghost-zombie-jesus · 1 year

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What do you think about Charles and Lydia? I see their relationship at the beginning as two people who were both grieving so deeply they couldn’t understand how the other person was grieving. Charles thought Lydia did it too much and she thought he didn’t do it enough, but when they talked (finally) they were each able to see the other side

Ouch, this hurts.

I'm going about this using the 5 stages of grief. If you don't know what they are, they're Denial, Anger, Bargaining, Depression, and Acceptance.

The thing about the stages? They don't have to happen in a linear order, hell they don't have to happen in that order. Some people get stuck pretty hard in one spot, others flip between different stages, some go through them in a different order. Grief is tricky, it's hard, it's all consuming, it sucks.

In the beginning of the musical, both of them are grieving a lost family member.

Lydia lost her mom. The person she looked up to the most, the person she felt closest to.

Charles lost his wife, his best friend, the woman he had expected to spend his entire life with.

We'll start with Lydia.

Throughout the musical, she flips through three stages, anger, depression, and bargaining. She's angry at her dad for moving on, for him moving her to a new house in a new state, at Delia for trying to replace her mom, for trying to make her forget her pain and suffering She's angry at the world, at her mom for dying, at herself for letting it happen. She's angry, she's in pain, and it hurts so damn much and no one seems to take her pain seriously.

She bargains. With her dad, begging him to go home, to talk about Dead Mom, to just listen to her. She begs her mom for a sign, to take Lydia with her and to not leave her behind, to help her. She begs Beetlejuice for help when she has nothing else to lose, nothing else to fight with. She begs to be seen and heard and understood as a grieving child, as someone who needs help and isn't getting it.

She's depressed. She has nothing to live for, she has no one to live for. He mom is gone, her dad can barely look at her, she left her friends and her life behind when they moved. She lost everything that made life worth it and can't move on. She thinks the only way out is to join her mother in death, and is only stopped when Beetlejuice convinces her that it isn't worth it.

Lydia is hurt. She is so undeniably, understandably hurt. By everyone around her, by herself, by her own Dead Mom. No one seems to take it seriously because they're caught up in their own issues and cycles and problems, and it's a horrid feedback loop of feeding on negative emotions onto to lash out when someone finally does offer a hand, only for them to then pull away because in her hurt, she hurts people around her, too.

She's angry, she's hurting, she's breaking apart, and no one even cares to see it. The first person to even acknowledge it is Beetlejuice, and he really doesn't get it, does he? He's selfish and really only wants to use her for his own gain, but somehow, oddly, it helps. A little. In a very bad way, but she's finally been seen by someone who accepts that this, this horribly anguished 15 year old, is who she is.

Charles, on the other hand, is stuck firmly in the denial stage. He's not denying that Emily is gone. That is a fact, one he has come to terms with. She's dead, and gone, and there's no coming back from it. He's not in denial of Emily's passing. He's in denial of his own grief and anguish. He won't let himself feel pain, he won't let himself take the time to grief the love of his life, or the life she left behind. He can't make himself think or talk about her, or talk to Lydia, or be there for his own daughter when she needs him the most. Because it hurts too much, so instead of taking the time to process that, he just. Doesn't.

And that's it, isn't it? The problem. In his denial of his own grief, he thinks he's at the acceptance stage. He accepted that Emily died, that things have changed (for the better? worse? he isn't sure but they changed). But he's not there. He hasn't moved on at all. He's only shoved everything as deep inside him as possible and pretends to be alright, to everyone around him, but most importantly, to himself. He refuses to take even a moment to let himself feel, so instead he becomes stone.

Emotionless, strong, sturdy. He can't break down, because what is there to break down about? He's fine, he's adapted, he's moved on. His daughter is just being overdramatic, she'll move on. She's just being an angsty teen, doesn't everyone have a phase like that? He can't see she's hurting, because he can't see he, himself, is just as hurt. You can't douse the fire from inside the house.

I feel like, before Emily died, Lydia and Charles were close. But her death hurt both of them so much that they pulled away, one buried herself in thorns, and the other incased himself in stone, and a rift formed between them. Both are unable to talk, because Lydia doesn't know how to anymore without lashing out, and Charles is so out of his depth with his own emotion that he can't process others' anymore, either.

They can't see eye to eye, because they're both stubborn. Both think their way of grieving is the only way. Lydia thinks that if Charles isn't outwardly showing how hurt he is, that he obviously didn't love Emily enough, and that he doesn't love her, either. Charles thinks that Lydia is being difficult for difficult's sake, and doesn't actually feel like that, instead she is fine and just lashing out because she can. Neither understand that people can process grief in different ways, and neither have the mental health or the strength to talk.

That's why their discussion in Home is so powerful to me. Because they finally do talk. They finally show each other exactly how much they're hurting. Lydia is able to finally talk to her dad without hurting herself and him in the process, and Charles is finally able to accept that he's hurting, he's grieving, and it only served to make everything so much worse than if he had let himself just feel.

Lydia saw her dad cared just as much as she did, if not more. Emily was his everything, too. He loved her, so much. And he couldn't bear to be without her, just like Lydia. But he couldn't let himself be open to the hurt and the emotional bleeding and the grief so instead he shut down emotionally.

Charles saw that Lydia wasn't just some teenager fighting against everything because she could, but as a scared, anguished child who was so lost, with no one to be there for her and no one but herself to lean on. She lashed out because it was the only way she knew how to get noticed.

They finally understand each other, in a way they hadn't before. They're so similar, and both have the capacity for so much love and hurt and feeling, but they process things differently, and that lead to a divide between them. A divide neither of them could bridge until the storm hit its peak, and then began to fade, and they could finally see the other side.

They can only come out stronger from this. And they do. Lydia finally begins to realize that the world didn't start and end with Emily, and that there are things worth living for, even if it doesn't feel like it all the time. People love and care for her, and she isn't alone. And Charles starts to realize that it's okay to hurt, and feel, and grieve, because without the bad feelings, the good ones are shallow and meaningless. It's just a facade, a mask, meaningless and ultimately destructive to his relationships.

In the end they come to an understanding, an appreciation about the other, an outlook on things that they had been lacking before. And they finally have someone who can be there and understand what they're going through. A father struggling to accept he's grieving, and his daughter who's struggling to accept the help she so desperately craves.

#veej's rambles #beetlejuice the musical #beetlejuice broadway #beetlejuice #charles deetz #lydia deetz #character analysis #asks from the recently deceased #thank you for this ask #i hope you like whatever this was. it got a lot longer than i was expecting.#this really hurt me to write but idk its true. they're both so hurt and broken #and its only after they realize this and that they both miss emily #that they can finally begin to heal. together.#i added a readmore bc it was long and i feel bad

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saikostories · 3 years

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BTS - Five stages of Grief (Jin)

Warning - May be upsetting to some readers, contains bad language

Jin hums to himself as he juggles the bags around on his arms, searching for his keys in his pockets. He silently scolds himself for wearing such tight jeans to the shop, but he forgets it when he thinks of how you’ll react when you see him coming in. He can tell that you’ve been feeling a little down lately, so he took the day off to spend with you. He let you sleep in while he went shopping, buying everything he needs to make your favourite meal. The excitement bubbles up inside of him as he pushes the door open, calling your name,

“Hey! I’m home! I hope you’re ready for the best meal of your whole entire life because I bought the best ingredients I could!” Jin yells into the silence of the apartment. He smiles to himself, assuming that you’re probably still in bed. He walks through to the kitchen, going to set the bags down on the counter when he sees you.

You’re collapsed on the floor, in an unnatural position. Jin stops short, not able to do anything but stare at you. The way your hair fans out behind you, the dead glassy look in your eyes, the paleness of your skin, the lack of movement on your body. You’re not breathing. For a moment, Jin can’t move he doesn’t know what to do. The silence seems to buzz at him, growing in volume and enveloping him menacingly until he breaks it, shouting your name. The bags drop from his grip and he falls down beside you, pulling your head against his chest as he begins to cry. He knows you’re not breathing. He can’t see any signs of life, and your skin isn’t warm anymore. You’re dead.

The first stage of grief is denial. Jin refuses to acknowledge that you’ve gone. When the coroner comes, after the paramedics pronounce you dead, and Jin’s done insisting that they’re wrong, Jin nearly doesn’t answer the door. He nearly refuses to let them in,

“They can’t take her, she’s not gone yet. It’s those damn paramedics not doing their job!” Jin yells at Yoongi, who had to drag him away from you. He’d tried to revive you himself when the paramedics wouldn’t, but everyone knew it was never going to work. Your skin’s cold. You’re not coming back. Jimin, Jungkook and Taehyung are huddled in a corner, holding each other as they cry. Hoseok isn’t far away, watching over his maknaes while his elders are busy. Tears fall silently down his own cheeks, but he can’t break yet. Later, he promises himself, you can cry later. Just hold it together for them,

“Jin, she’s gone. I’m sorry, I know-“ Yoongi starts, hands still firm on Jin’s shoulders, physically holding him down as he tries to get up,

“Shut up! Namjoon don’t you let that coroner in! I just need to get to her! Please, I can help her! Yoongi just let me get up, I can do it! I learned CPR, she’s not gone yet! Why are you just giving up?” Jin pleads, not letting Yoongi get out what he wants to say. Namjoon throws an apologetic look to Yoongi as he opens the door. The black bags will set Jin off more than Yoongi will be able to handle on his own, and both of the men know it. When Namjoon opens the door, he quickly bolts over to Jin, helping Yoongi in holding him down. But he’s hysteric, and the pained sounds leaving his lips hurt everyone.

The second stage of grief is anger. Jin stays in this stage the longest. The group visit every day, but it only aggravates Jin. Jimin and Taehyung sit on the couch, holding each other as Jin has another one of his outbursts. They’re becoming more and more frequent, and more and more unpredictable. Hoseok had gone to get a blanket for Jin, because he was shivering, but when Jin saw Hoseok’s hands gripping the fluffy blanket, he snapped,

“Don’t touch that!” He had screamed, leaping up to tear it from Hoseok, “That’s hers! Don’t you get it? Don’t touch her things! It’s hers and it’s not yours to touch and throw around like some toy! How dare you waltz on in here, taking her stuff and getting it dirty! Who the fuck do you think you are?” Jin spat, taking a step closer to Hoseok with every passing moment, his face red as he bore down upon the younger man. Jungkook had tried to step in, placing a hand on Jin’s shoulder,

“Jin hyung, please calm down. Hobi hyung didn’t know. You can put it back, and we won’t touch it again, okay?” The maknae had suggested. He wanted to fix the situation, but it only did the opposite. Jin shoved the younger man hard. Under normal circumstances, Jungkook was easily stronger than Jin, but the shock of the violent outburst sent him stumbling back, falling into the couch. That’s when Jimin had started crying,

“Shut up!” Jin had screamed, rounding on the smallest of the seven. That’s when Yoongi had to step in. Jungkook could take getting hit, Hoseok could take getting yelled at. But not Jimin. He’d taken this badly too and Yoongi wouldn’t watch him suffer the way that Jungkook or Hoseok had,

“Jin, take a step back. This isn’t Jimin’s fault. We’re all upset,” Yoongi had told Jin firmly, taking a step between the two. Jin’s eyes darkened a shade further at this challenge, but rose to it. He stepped forward, towering over Yoongi, but no means more intimidating. Jin had height and broadness, but Yoongi had heart. Yoongi breaths were controlled and calculated, but he had an air about him that screamed danger. He still does. Jin had stepped back with a scoff, turning to go to his room,

“Group therapy’s over. Fuck off, all of you,” Jin had spat, slamming the bedroom door behind him. But no-one got up to move. Jin would go to sleep, wake up worse than before and need his boys. And his boys needed him too.

The third stage of grief is bargaining. Jin had been refusing visitors, keeping his door locked and windows shut at all times. Namjoon still came every single day, leaving a pot of soup that Jin would drink (cold) hours after Namjoon left. At least he was eating, though. Namjoon would pick up the empty pot and leave a fresh one. It became a routine over the three weeks that Jin kept himself completely closed off.

When Jin wasn’t gulping down the (poorly made) cold soup that Namjoon made, he stayed sat in the middle of his living room, knelt on his bare knees as he spoke with God. He didn’t even believe in a God before you were taken from here. But now, here he was. His knees are raw and bleeding from the three weeks he’s spent like this, and every muscle and tendon in him is inflamed and begging for him to stop. But Jin can’t stop. He wants to make a deal with God, to get you back. He knows that you must have gone to heaven, but if Good doesn’t respond soon he’ll try Satan. In his head, it makes sense,

“I’ll practice Christianity. I won’t swear, I won’t drink, I’ll sing Jesus songs, I’ll go to church, I won’t ever have sex until I’m married. I’ll get a cross tattooed on my forehead if you really want, just please, I want her back. It wasn’t her time. Why did you take her? Why didn’t you turn her around at the gates and tell her to come back down?” Jin pleads, leaning forward so that his forehead touches the ground. The tears slip onto the carpet in front of him and sobs wrack his body.

Namjoon presses his ear to the door as he usually does, straining to hear more of Jin’s one sided conversation with God. He knows he shouldn’t invade Jin’s privacy like this, but he can’t help it. He hasn’t seen his oldest hyung’s face in three weeks, and he’s more than scared for his health. Thing’s aren’t much better back at the dorm. It’s all falling apart. You and Jin had stapled things together, and now that’s collapsing.

The fourth stage of grief is depression. When Jin had finally opened the door for Namjoon, he was barely standing. Namjoon had nearly cried at the sight of him. Jin was dressed in a large shirt and basketball shirts. The loose garments hung off of him in a scary way his collarbones jutted out violently, his cheek bones were too pronounced, his eyes seemed to sink into his head and his wrists were too thin and shook as he held onto the door handle. His knees were blistered, bruised and cut to the point where Namjoon wondered how Jin had managed to continue to kneel every day for so long. Had Namjoon seen Jin with no shirt, he would have been able to count every single one of ribs, and seen the way his hipbones pushed against his paper white skin,

“I need help,” Jin had whispered, and Namjoon had just nodded, not trying to speak. He had walked into the apartment, not reacting to the state it was in. Jin hadn’t moved from the living room in weeks, and hadn’t tidied up since last time the boys were over. That was a month ago now. Namjoon had missed Jin more than words could day. All he wanted was to call the entire group to come over, but that wasn’t for today. For the first time since your suicide, Namjoon had hope. Maybe Jin was getting better.

The fifth stage of grief is acceptance. But Jin never gets there. He can’t accept it. He’s stuck in limbo, forever trapped between the stages of grief. He can’t escape.

Namjoon knocks on the door twice before just letting himself in. Jin probably wouldn’t answer the door anyway. Knocking has become more of a courtesy at this point. Namjoon shuts the door behind him, walking through to the kitchen, intending to put the kettle on to make some tea. He stops short when he sees a crumpled mess on the floor. Unnatural position… not breathing…. His hair fans out behind him, his eyes are glassy, he looks pale, he’s not moving. He’s not breathing. He’s dead, too.

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vincent-frankenstein · 5 years

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To My Heart and Soul

[ 1 | you are here | 3 | 4 | 5 | 6 | 7 | 8 | 9 | 10 | 11 | 12 | 13 | 14 | 15 | 16 | 17 | 18 | read on AO3 ]

Warnings: major character death, villain/abusive deceit, blood, fighting, panic attacks, creepy imagery

Pairings: logince, hints of moxiety, a tiny smidge of remile and past abusive anxceit

Logan hadn’t slept in a week.

The incident in the graveyard haunted him, chased him day and night, attacked him in his dreams and drove his sleep away. He couldn’t seem to distance himself from it like he distanced himself from everything else, try as he might. There were no scars, no marks, nothing to prove it had actually happened but a few nightmares and a shard of hope that refused to dislodge from his lungs. It was maddening.

Had it actually happened? At first, he’d searched with fervor for the stranger, for the shadows, for something to prove that the incident had been real. He found nothing. Of course he found nothing — the incident made no logical sense. He was delusional, that was all. But still, the damned hope persisted. Could Roman be alive? The thought was far too good to be true, and not logical in the slightest. He had been dead for eleven months. Logan had seen the body. There was no possible way he was still alive.

And there was no way he’d been attacked by shadow creatures. There was no way his broken bones could be healed in mere seconds. There was no way any of that could have happened.

There was no way Roman was coming back.

He had been grieving. The most logical explanation was that he had fallen asleep and dreamed it all. His grief constructed a nonsensical world in which Roman had survived, and in his turmoil, he clung to it, despite how unrealistic he knew it was.

But a logical explanation didn’t keep the nightmares away. It didn’t keep him from flinching at shadows, or searching every face for purple eyes and long, dark bangs. Why couldn’t he stop dwelling? Reason said Roman was dead and gone forever. Logic said he had only been dreaming. So why did his heart continue to insist he was still there?

He couldn’t stop.

He needed to stop.

It took a week of illogical behavior for him to finally make an appointment with his therapist. The post-Roman world he’d finally begun learning how to live in was falling apart, and he needed to rebuild his walls before everything crumbled around him. Dr. Picani had been with him since Roman had died, he’d know exactly what to do. And even if he didn’t… well, Logan needed to talk about this with someone.

He paced back and forth in front of Picani’s chair while he waited for the doctor to arrive, his hands clasped firmly behind his back. He’d been like this the whole week, overly tense and overly anxious, like a spring wound far too tight. He feared the moment he’d burst. The soft, warm colors of Picani’s office worked to soothe the awful thoughts cutting through his mind, but did nothing to lessen the hope fear he’d felt since the encounter.

He stiffened as the door creaked open behind him. “Logan! Do you how —” Picani hesitated, taking in Logan’s disheveled, tense figure. “Ah. Not doin’ too good, huh? Take a seat, Lo.”

“I-I am —” His voice cracked and he forcefully cleared his throat, adjusting his tie with a stiff jerk. Talking about his emotions was uncomfortable enough, he refused to break down. “I am concerned that my grief is… resurfacing.”

Picani’s eyebrows furrowed. “How so?” he asked, pulling out his notepad and clicking open his pen. He never moved his gaze from Logan, his amber eyes shining with concern. The words Logan had planned died on his tongue.

He’d pictured this moment countless times since he’d schedule the appointment, planning every possible way to explain his nightmare without sounding like a complete and utter loon. But now, faced with Picani’s searchlight eyes — too much like a friend’s, too concerned, not uncaring enough to explain his problems without expecting pity in return — he found his voice had vanished.

Picani let out a soft sigh. “I won’t force it out of you if you’re not comfy sharing. However, I will say this: you’re allowed to still be grieving. It hasn’t even been a year, Logan. You gotta give yourself time to heal.” He bit his lip, and Logan could feel the incoming cartoon reference. “You know how Pearl couldn’t move on and heal until she could talk about Rose? You can’t expect yourself to be able to heal until you’ve talked about Roman.”

Logan winced. Eleven months, and even the mention of his name sent a pang through his chest. “I am aware of that. I just — I believed myself to be past the denial stage of grief. It is… frustrating.”

“Well, there is no one linear way to grieve. You can think you’re ahead for a while, and then something happens and you’re pushed right back to where you began. It can be frustrating, but you have to remember that grief is more of a cycle than a one-and-done plan.” He pushed his glasses up the bridge of his nose with the end of his pen. “Did something happen, Logan?”

“I…” Logan sighed, shifting in his seat. “Yes. A-A nightmare, I think. I mean — there is nothing else it could have been. As you know, it was our… our anniversary, last week.”

“Yes,” Picani said, his voice soft.

“I visited the graveyard, to see him. I must have fallen asleep at some point, because…” And he went on, forcing the memory from his mouth. It seemed both more real and more imagined all at once, hanging in the air between them, both a memory and a dream.

“And he told me of some plot to… use me to get to Roman, implying that Roman is still alive. It is all highly nonsensical, of course, but I cannot seem to get it out of my head.”

“Ah…” Picani scribbled some quick notes, biting his lip in thought. “It gave you hope, even if it was unrealistic. It makes sense that you’ve subconsciously latched onto it, even though you know it can’t be real. You do know that, right?”

“Of course I do,” Logan snapped sharply, running a hand through his hair. He bit back a sigh, his anger fading as quickly as it had appeared. “I just… I don’t want to focus on this anymore. I want to move on.”

“I know,” Picani said gently, “but moving on is a process. One that involves letting yourself feel things, no matter how painful they may be. In order to —”

A distant crash cut him off before he could finish his thought. Sharing a look of confusion, Picani and Logan stood, looking to the door. Picani’s receptionist cried out in fright and Picani started forward, eyes wide, mouth open to call out to her — and before he could, a figure kicked down the door.

“What —” In a flash of blinding green light, Picani was thrown against the wall and held there by an unseen force, face frozen in surprise. Logan stumbled backwards, his back hitting the wall as he scrambled to get away from the stranger.

“Sorry, hun. You’re not who I’m after.” The stranger shrugged at Picani, blowing a big bubble-gum bubble and popping it with a sassy flourish. He turned his gaze on Logan, and his eyes, hidden behind a pair of dark sunglasses, seemed to smoulder with satisfaction. “I’m after a certain ratty-ass thot named Anxiety. And a little birdy told me you’ve seen him.”

Logan stammered, spluttering incoherently. A million implications hit him all at once, with roughly the force of several freight trains, and he nearly topped beneath the weight. The stranger before him was holding Picani to the wall with nothing — which implied magic, impossible magic, but magic nonetheless, like the kind the stranger had used the week before — which meant that the stranger had existed, he hadn’t dreamt it, however illogical that was —

Which meant that somewhere, somehow, Roman could still be alive.

“‘Fess up, babe, I don’t have all day.” From the pocket of his long, flowing leather jacket, the stranger produced a curved blade, the dark wooden hilt engraved with softly glowing symbols. Logan stiffened against the wall, his breath freezing in his lungs.

But through that fear rang one clarifying thought. Roman could still be alive, his heart beat with every passing second, a mantra of hope that he didn’t dare block out. He drew himself to his full height, forcing as much confidence into his stance as one could when faced with a knife-carrying wizard.

“If I give you answers, you will have to give me some in return,” he demanded, pushing through even as his voice trembled. The stranger laughed, a high, barking noise.

“Gurl, you are a riot!” he exclaimed, grinning widely. Logan noticed with a jolt of fear that his teeth were pointed, like fangs. “Trying to bargain, how cute! Listen, hun, I’ll show you a bargain. Tell me where that bitch is, and I won’t kill you. And don’t forget who holds the knife in this relationship.”

He twirled the dagger in his hand. Logan threw any plans of negotiating from his mind. “I don’t even know who you’re talking about,” he insisted. “Who is Anxiety?”

The stranger sighed, rolling his dark eyes. “Tall, dark, edgy, wears a patched cloak, reeks with the scent of complete and utter betrayal? This ringing any bells, gurl?”

Oh. The stranger at the graveyard? Logan hesitated, forcing any recognition from his face before the stranger could read it. The person at the graveyard — Anxiety, apparently — had saved his life. This knife-wielding madman had done nothing but magic his therapist to a wall and threaten him at knifepoint.

“I have no idea who that is,” Logan said evenly. The stranger heaved a heavy sigh, throwing his whole body into the action, and then stuck his knife beneath Logan’s chin in one swift movement, the cold blade nearly close enough to draw blood.

“Try. Again.”

“R-Right.” Logan gulped. “Maybe I do remember him.”

The stranger grinned, eyes lighting up. “There we go! Now, where the fuck is he?” He jutted his hip out to one side, popping another bubble-gum bubble as he waited for Logan’s answer.

“I don’t know,” Logan said, as evenly as he could manage with a knife waiting at his throat. “He left in a hurry, and I haven’t seen him since. I didn’t even know his name before now. I am not involved in this situation!”

“Oh, hun, you are.” The stranger sighed, drawing his knife from beneath Logan’s chin. Logan tried not to sag with relief. Tossing it from one hand to the other, the stranger fixed him with a strange expression. “For whatever reason, good ol’ Anxiety decided to pay you a visit. That’s big, babe, he never visits people. That means he’s interested in you.”

“But why?” Logan asked. “Is it — is it because of Roman?”

That got the stranger’s attention. He froze, the knife nearly tumbling from his hands. “Excuse me? You don’t mean Roman Cygnus?”

The name sent memories flooding through his mind that he shoved away on instinct. “Yes. He’s — he was my husband. Anxiety mentioned something —”

“Holy shit.” The stranger stepped back. “You — he left us for you?”

“You knew him?” Logan’s fear vanished in an instant. He stepped forward. “What do you mean he left you? Is he alive? Where is he?”

The stranger held up his hands, eyebrows furrowed. All the sass had drained from his movements, leaving behind only languid confusion. He regarded Logan in a new light — studying him, almost. “Babe, chill, I —”

“I have not been ‘chill’ since he died! If you have any information, I implore you to give it to me. Then I can assist you in finding this Anxiety.” It was a bold-faced falsehood, he knew; he still had no idea where the cloaked stranger had gone, and even less of an idea of how to find him. Still, he’d managed to grab the reins of the confrontation, and a lead on Roman’s death. Truth no longer mattered.

Not when he could see Roman again.

The stranger spluttered, holding up his hands. “Listen, okay, I don’t —”

And the wall behind him burst into pieces.

#to my heart and soul #celeste's portfolio #sanders sides #logan sanders #remy sanders #sleep sanders #dr. picani #emile picani #knife tw #logince

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taehyungiejiminie95 · 6 years

Text

Jin - Suicide

Warning - May be upsetting to some readers, contains bad language

“Jin, she’s gone. I’m sorry, I know-“ Yoongi starts, hands still firm on Jin’s shoulders, physically holding him down as he tries to get up,

The fifth stage of grief is acceptance. But Jin never gets there. He can’t accept it. He’s stuck in limbo, forever trapped between the stages of grief. He can’t escape.

Namjoon knocks on the door twice before just letting himself in. Jin probably wouldn’t answer the door anyway. Knocking has become more of a courtesy at this point. Namjoon shuts the door behind him, walking through to the kitchen, intending to put the kettle on to make some tea. He stops short when he sees a crumpled mess on the floor. Unnatural position… not breathing.... His hair fans out behind him, his eyes are glassy, he looks pale, he’s not moving. He’s not breathing. He’s dead, too.

Masterlist

#bts #bts reactions #bts seokjin #bts jin #bts angst #bts scenarios

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