Why is Love so Hard? |BENDY X HENRY| (OLD)

Still Here.

Y'know, thinking something's wrong with you, thinking you shouldn't be the way you are, thinking that you're fucked up inside, is one thing.

But having someone tell you, knowing, that something's wrong? That it's not all in your fucked up little head? That's something else entirely.

It makes things feel real. Yet in that same way, it feels like it shouldn't be real. That it's all just some sick joke. Some nightmare you're gonna wake up from any minute now. Any minute, you'll wake up.

Any minute now....

But you don't.

You never do, because you were never sleeping.

Dreams do come true, after all.

Slush pools around my feet as I trod down the street. Cold and unforgiving like the sharp flakes falling from the sky.

I know what snow is. Hell, I've seen Snow Sillies so many times I could act it out, unconscious. But experiencing it, well, it's entirely different.

Snow is colder than I thought. Not as fluffy or soft. It's harsh, cold and sharp. It tastes like soot. Albeit childishly, I'd expected it to taste sweet. Like sugar or something.

Still, I catch the flakes on my tongue. They melt it in my mouth, and I can't help when my tail wags like one of those dumb mutts.

Cars honk their horns loudly, stuck in traffic. Police sirens wail like electric babies. The café I lit up earlier is still ablaze, assuming that's what's holding them up. And hot shit, it's absolutely gorgeous in the snow.

Orange from the fire and smoke battles with the white sky of early snow, and it all meshes together in one breath taking clash of warm colour.

The first flakes started falling as I crossed Joey's lawn. Like the world thought I'd made a mistake and tried to patch it with white out like the animators used to do when they messed up a frame.

At first I had been confused, and, admittedly, panicked just a smidge. But now? Now I'm all but frockling in the shit.

As I stare at an empty park suffocated in a pillow of white, I briefly debate making a snowman.

Y'know, the one from the cartoon. Short and stout, two snowballs, one on the other, vegetable nose and dopey coal smile and accents.

But like everyone, it'd just die. Plus, someone would eat his nose off.

I'm talking about you, Boris. You heartless prick.

So I keep going, trudging through the soggy whirlwind of white.

The smell of smoke hits me like a brick as I walk by the café, and sure enough, it's still burning.

It seems the Blues and Reds don't know how to handle it. Grinning, I slip my hands in my pockets and whistle away as I stroll by. Heh. It's funny how the guy they're looking for is passing right by, and they don't even know.

Wailing siren cars are parked all the way down the street, and they're hauling my disfigured masterpieces out of the burning building. Pity. I'm pretty sure those were some of my best works.

Reaching a dark green snow coated sign, I turn to follow the curve of the sidewalk. I'm in the home stretch now.

Content to let the snow flutter around me, I try to catch as many snowflakes as I can, snapping at the air like a mutt.

Eventually though, I reach the house. As I head up the walk, I gaze up at the small building.

It's two stories, decked out in a pretty little blue colour. There's two windows adorning the top, a small little alcove like room tacked onto the side of the house with a window and a cushioned bench nestled beneath it interior-wise. The ivory front door is nestled between that and the living room, which has a large curtained window as well. Beside that, the dingy garage.