I think out of everyone and everything here, I'm the closest thing to looking "human", in some twisted way.
Catch me on my left side, you wouldn't think much. A short young man who looks drained, that's all. Sick, even.
Catch me on my right side and you wouldn't want to stick around. No one did, really.
It hurts. My teeth show through the gash and gore while my jaw is slightly slanted. My throat is a mess, inside and out. And my eyes...
I couldn't tell you where they were.
. . .
I've always been on the small side, there's no question about it.
I remember when I was little my mother would call me, "her little sparrow". Like I was weak. Helpless. But precious at the same time.
From the start, I wanted to prove her wrong.
And I think I did, honestly. But not without shame. Or guilt.
Or blood.
...
I remember how I was.
Witty, wistful, nostalgic and eager. Eager to help. Eager to prove what I was worth. Eager to look at the bright side.
What bright side?
I remembered when I went down hill.
I yelled at a friend who was only doing his job. He punched me afterwards. I hurt him with my sharp tongue and he hurt me with his fist.
I think a part of me wanted that. Wanted to be hit, to be hurt. As if maybe that could restore who I was.
Or could gain me a couple brain cells.
I remember how I would sneak off to the sewers, only to be met with welcome arms.
Even if I didn't always want them.
He was there to make me a cup of coffee when I needed it. To teach me melody and beats when I needed a change of subject. And to embrace me when I didn't know what to do.
I loved him more than my own father. And unlike my own father, he loved me back.
And then I pinned a knife to his throat. I asked if he trusted me, if we were friends.
I ruined it. I ruined his trust, I ruined our friendship.
He still loved me though.
I didn't deserve it though. It's not like I was actually his son.
...
I remember when she would comfort me, always treating me like she treated me when I was little. No matter how many temper tantrums I threw. No matter how many insults I spat. No matter when my heart beat had stopped.
She said she would share her heart beat with me. Her heart would beat for both of us.
Whenever I questioned her, she told me, "Because it's what older sisters do."
She said that a lot.
Even though it hurt that she wasn't really my older sister.
I guess she was just that kind.
And then, there was her.
Like the others, I didn't deserve her.
Not her humour, not her snappiness.
Not her kiss. Or her love.
But I wanted to deserve it. All of it.
His friendship.
His forgiving nature.
Her kindness.
And her heart.
I think I even wanted to deserve my father's pride or my mother's sweetness.
I mean, I don't think my father was ever proud of me.
Maybe because he just saw through me, even before I turned insane.
Maybe he was just that smart than everyone else from the beginning.
I got what I deserved though.
Blood, loneliness, wounds that never heal, headaches that never fade.
I'm finally as disfigured as my personality.
Happy Birthday, me. You did it.
Å̴̡̛̛̻͈̲̘̤͑̃̽̀̊̉͊̃̐͗͌̍͘͢͜͞n̴̸̸̢̨̛͍̞͉͖͙͎̝̬͓̤͖̘̪̮̿ͬ̏͊͂̋̽̔͐́ͦ̃ͤ̉̔͗̀̇̎̓̆ͅd͔̼̖̣̤̈́͌̈͋͛̆ͦ͑̋̓̀ͦ Ī̛̘͎̣͖̫̰͚̟͆͌͋̽͆̀͑͋̾̅͆͌̃͊̌̕͜'͓̝̭̅͆͛ͫ̚m̵̡̛̟̫̯̭̭̳̝̝̹̺̙̩͚̙̦̳̑͋͒̀̄̅ͫ͂͑ͤ́̀̎̈́̈͐̋̊ͤ̓̍ͦ̊̔͜͞ s̜̼̱̣̊̒̔̇ͨ̍͒͒͝o̸͖̹̰̦̩͓̭͙̠̖̬̐̋ͩ͒ͯ̆ͬ̓̇́̌̍ͪͪͧ̀͘͢͢͠͞ s̸̴̞͎̃́o̥͙̖͑̽ͨ̌͒r̷͇̻̺̦ͮ͌̅͑͆͊͋̑̑ͨ͝ͅ_̵̮̖̯̳̥͖̯̰̰̃̽̀ͨ̈́̋̒̏͆͊͒́͆͟͢͟͜͝r̹̻̽̑y.̷̗̺͈͌̄̀̈́̍̿͢͟
(For @thelocalmoth and for @creationandcalamityau who might so happen to recognise which characters are being mentioned ;) )
Hudson felt rattled, his insides failing as the tears still streamed down his face. He wiped his eyes, feeling suddenly tired and uneasy.
He paused for a moment, feeling his mind still fog up, but....
He was him. Like him before all the ink shit.
IN THE WORST OF TIMES.
He then sobbed again, his hands covering his face. He bit his lip and pressed his face into Jack's chest, still not coping the information well.
He wasn't even mad.
Just scared.
@asknorman-polk @ask-thelyricist or @art-by-stella
*you and Sammy were in Sammy's office arguing or some shit idfk*
Stella walked into the room and flicked off the light, drawing y'all's attention. she lingered in the doorway, gripping a knife tightly and partially covered in a substance that looked suspiciously like blood...
"Sammy..." she muttered. she acknowledged Hudson with a nod in his direction before throwing her head back and cackling like a maniac. :]
- @art-by-stella
Hudson stared at in suspicion, already turning away from Sammy, whom he was already so done with.
He raised a brow, his gaze unwavering as he folded his arms against his chest. The dark rings under his eyes and his pale skin proved he wasn't in good health. Though he stubbornly refused to admit it.
"Can I help you or are you just going to giggle like a creepy doll all day?" He asked, his tone unconcerned and tired.
(Stella wtf??)
How would you rate Hudson’s cooking ability? Is he a chef or a burn-the-kitchen-down type?
7/10.
Hudson can cook for himself and survive, never making anything fancy unless having the motivation too.
He picked up a lot from Cathy (mom) and will bake sometimes for Ray and bring him lunch (even though he forgets his own).
However, Hudson shouldn't be trusted in the kitchen when angry, probably just leaving the eggs on the stove to burn while he just cranks up the heat even more with this expression: >:/
You asked me so I'm gonna ask you the same, Who's your favorite Bendy Character?
OH GOD UH...I'ma say Norman Polk OR Wally Franks!
If it was my AU, it would be: Norman and Johnny
My favourite characters used to be: Shawn Flynn or Henry Stein (still love them, but now it's a healthy amount XD)
i require more art of jimmy, please :3
And a Jimmy you shall receive! A fun fact about Jimmy is he's trans! (F to M) ^ ^
Eyes are like the windows to the mind.
Everything is dark under here.
My eyes hurt so much. So much that I can't even feel them.
My eyelids feel weird. I'm not sure how to describe it.
Something feels hollow.
My lungs hurt as I hack up, the dust already in my lungs. My back laying on something soft, but overwhelming.
It smells like earth in here, but just dry and forgotten about.
I need to get out.
I try getting up, but my spine lets out a pained protest, my head already hitting something hard. I lay back down, still coughing.
The coughing feels like someone's cutting up my throat.
My hand blindly reaches out in front of me, hitting what feels like wood. My fingers dig into the palm of my hand and hit above, dust spraying down on me once again.
I have to ignore it. I have to get out.
Something's trickling down my face, warm and unwelcoming. It thickly smells like iron.
No time. Air's too tight.
I get my hands above and try pushing up, more dust falling on me.
My hands are now slamming against it, over and over.
I need to get out.
Splinters are already digging into my skin, stabbing in.
I can't stop.
It's so hard to breathe.
Blood is beginning to trickle down my wrists and bruises are swelling up on my knuckles.
I need to see. I need to see. I need to see.
Where are my eyes?
He/him. Name: Untilted or Hudson. Welcome to the Writing Department, watch your step. Employees Notice: Elevator is currently unavailable.
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