Fuck it. Fuck this fucking town, fuck this fucking house. Fuck his life. Jerome grunted dismissively as he took another sip from a bottle of whiskey, having lost count of the sips he had already taken, having lost sense of time. Fuck wine. Fuck anything that wouldn't make those images inside his head disappear with deadly precision, fuck his resolution to never drink hard stuff to prevent something like this from happening. Fuck, he wanted this to happen now. Why had he even clinged so much to his senses telling him not to completely waste himself, trying to keep a clear head, trying to keep himself together as best as he could? FUCK THAT, TOO.
This fucking parade had ruined all the willpower he had been able to muster throughout these last fucking days, and it angered him to no end that they had been able to royally kick him off the edge that he had been barely avoiding for years at this point. Congratulations, you fuckers.
Memories he had clinged to had turned into a nightmare, and every single thought even remotely broaching the issue of one of his kids stabbed a sharp knife right inside his heart, turning it until the bloody bulk spit fire. Every memory had turned into a black mass of desperation, and not all the sips in the world could make him forget this eerily grinning image of his late wife, piercing through his eyes directly into his soul, shattering him, even if he was trying hard.
He had had already understood that They were sadistic assholes, only waiting for new possibilites to screw them over, new attempts to break them mentally, probably having a perverted pleasure watching all of them suffer, but the things that had happened today weren't nearly anything he could have imagined. Not even in his worst nightmares. This had been the pure face of evil, orchestrated by people who were obviously lacking a soul.
He wanted this image to vanish. He wanted the memory to vanish. He wanted to vanish.
No. He wanted to go home.
It felt as if his stomach was revolting against his very body as the desperation manifested itself physically, prompting him to scream and cry and kick around in pure and ugly rage, releasing every feeling he had suppressed, making him feel like a totally deranged idiot to have started to live inside this place, baking shit, befriending people, ignoring the obvious of him being trapped, of him being seperated from his kids whom he would probably never fucking see again.
They were gone. He would eventually forget their faces, he would eventually die. There was no future anymore. There was only a dark hole sucking him in.
And there was no place to hide from all the self-pity that got released as if someone had pushed a button. Which was basically what had happened a little while ago when this FUCKING parade had started to reveal its true nature, happily showing him all the horrors that he had never overcome, that he had suppressed as deep as possible to be able to be a good father, WHICH DIDN'T FUCKING MATTER ANYMORE!
BECAUSE HE WAS FUCKING HERE!
Jerome's hands trembled strongly as the bottle sank to the ground, a placement which wouldn't last for long, as he needed the alcohol more than ever. Tears kept streaming down his face in an attempt to find salvation. They found none.
The crushing and defeating desperation had broken through the intense rage that had been his first reaction of Their brazeness to actually use an image of his late wife in such a dishonoring way, mocking him from Their little fucking safe zone from behind the fence, and he had barely managed to hold on to himself to not try and pass the invisible barrier once again to destroy this monstrosity which hurt him so badly. She looked at him. Grinned at him. Blamed him.
And then those scenes he didn't even have the slightest fucking clue how They could know of, as these were secrets he had kept hidden from the world, and for such a long time, hidden from himself. His 'best friend' killing his baby daughter right in front of his eyes, the image of his dead love of his life in the bathtub. How would they know. How could they dare to picture these things. HOW COULD THEY FUCKING KNOW
Jerome had felt powerless since his arrival here, but this was a whole new level of powerless, making this situation even more real than it had already been, demonstrating that these bastards were basically God capable of anything they wanted to be capable of. This was real. This was happening. No matter how unreal it felt, it felt real.
And it hurt so much he wanted to die. Just for today, just for now. He... just couldn't anymore. He couldn't muster the willpower to resist the flood of feelings overwhelming him with an intensity he had never felt before, as there always had been people in his life worth protecting, people whose mere presence was soothing and a reason to somehow move on. He was alone now. Trapped inside a fucking nightmare.
Jerome didn't know how long he already sat there, leaning against the wall, his room looking like Lucy's room had probably looked the day before after he had taken out his anger at the interior without actually breaking anything, because he had lacked the strength to do so. Because his whole body had been trembling like fucking leaves in the wind. He didn't even remember how he had ended up leaning against his door on the ground and drinking without any reasonability. He didn't even fucking care. He just wanted these images to vanish, but they didn't. His children were smiling inside his head, and he wanted to smash those pictures into tiny pieces, as embracing them felt like a fucking taunt.
He didn't care how disgusting he felt. He didn't care how much he fucking hated himself. And still, these feelings were nagging continuously at his sanity. He just kept drinking, then vomiting, then drinking again. Crying, raging, pitying, hating himself, and not caring. A miserable shadow snapping at himself.