Trope Tale #1: Beside You In Time (Converse With the Unconscious)

3 May

[This story is part of a series wherein I hit the random button on TV Tropes and write a short story based on whatever comes up. This story is based on the trope Converse With the Unconscious. The title of the story comes from a Nine Inch Nails song off of the With_Teeth album.]

Beside You In Time

Monotony. You have to feel it, don’t you, there where you’ve laid—where you continue to lay—and you must be so bored. Can I be bored? Only if boredom is a particle of the larger part called stress, in the bigger picture called anxiety, which culminates into something called depression.


My hand is numb because I can’t remove it from yours, and you know the thoughts in my head are just unstoppable. They won’t let me be content with the ideal of holding your hand forever. They say, “this isn’t going to wake her up,” and, “you’re only damaging yourself,” and, “if you let go, it doesn’t mean you don’t love her.” God I fucking hate logic.


I don’t have that thing called hatred. That indescribable pain is only a part of love. My blame for you is love. My rage for you is love. There’s no such thing as hatred here.

How this room has retained its agonizing blueish hue is beyond me. I’ve suspected, however, that this has changed my ability to perceive light. Now I can only see colors that make me sad.

Your face is blue in my eyes. When I see it, I cry and want to kill myself. I’d cut my wrist if I could wrench my hand away from yours. I wonder, if we stay like this for long enough, will we fuse together?

And I ask myself:

Did I love you this much?

Do I only love you so much now out of some backhanded sunk cost fallacy?

Or is it really that I don’t care about myself, or that I’m too scared to leave, or could it be that I’m actually


There’s no answer.

There’s never an answer.


I push my face against yours and I kiss you. Do you feel it? Does it matter?

When you wake up, will you know that I felt so much pain?

Will it then be you holding onto my hand as I recover?

Sometimes I wish you would’ve died. Then I could’ve killed myself and been together with you. But I can’t kill you. I can’t dream of losing any chance to be with you again.

So here I am.

Hand in your hand.

Face to your face.

Breast to your breast.

Where I’m not supposed to be.

With you.


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