Work Text:
The pain was too much.
It was making his chest feel heavy, his heart tight like it was constricted into pinchers.
Billie Joe was crying, curled up into a ball on his bed. His eyes were red rimmed and swollen, also thanks to the weed he had smoked beforehand.
His small body was trembling, his sobs shaking him so roughly. Hands white as they held so tightly against the pillow.
He was dying, or at least it felt like it. His throat was constricted, making him unable to breath.
Alcohol was sloshing his insides, making him feel like his head was wrapped in wads of cotton and the fact he was high wasn't helping his already fucked up mind.
His gut churned with a sense of disappointment in himself: he thought he had stopped drinking for good.
A high pitched whine left chapped lips, which were open and struggling to get as much air as possible in his screaming lungs.
Small, tattooed hands left the security of the pillow, flying to his head to tug harshly on greasy, unwashed hair and he screeched again.
He was tired of fighting.
He wanted his freedom.
Didn't he suffer enough in the 53 years he had been in this unforgiving world?
Soon, he thought. Soon everything was going to disappear.
With a small smile on his tired face, Billie let himself bury in the darkness of his closed eyes.
Soon, the pain was going to stop. Hopefully forever.