SACCHARINE - VIOLENT VIRA.
bring all the sinners to me i will tear out my limbs for your feast.
toolshed got tired of the push and pull. the lack of empathy. the way they were pretending they understood him.
they didn't. the fake comfort. the pity. he didn’t need that. his fingers clench each time someone could cup the side of his face, say the words “it’ll get better.”
it won’t.
rotting, i'm wasting my youth laying down the like the child i knew
he grew up to be detached from his inner self. he didn’t understand the meaning of helping others without something backfiring. he never was one to take things without something happening.
he always was right.
each time he saved someone, it was either too late or too roughly.
saccharine, always saccharine there's a war in my head that you can't comprehend
the constant scolding from other heroes around him. for how he worked and how he operated his own missions. he always went solo for this reason—nobody understood his thought process. they pushed him. pushed him further and further away from his loyalty towards them.
the freedom pals weren’t supposed to be full of judgment. they were a team.
and it's all opulence oh, hysteria
he knew he made mistakes. he knew that very well — but if it was human kite? easily forgiven. but him? he’ll never hear the end of it.
“you could’ve done better, toolshed!”
“i know.” he’d say, unsure of how to defend himself anymore—breath reeking of cheap bottles of god-knows-what.
toolshed never felt a part of them, rather than an outsider or the punching bag. the only one who would look at him without such malice would be human kite. then again, kite never knew the full story. only his side. did that count? or was that bias? pity? toolshed never knew.
and he didn’t care to.
like an angel to my soul bring it on, my hysteria
one night, toolshed never appeared in the freedom pals headquarters. rather, alone this time. his grip around his nail gun tight. the drill whirring to life in his other. he stood at the far edge of a building—looking down.
he gave up with those puny little heroes.
they pushed. they pushed. they pushed. and now he was the monster they turned him into.
load it in the barrel of a gun
“toolshed! are you here?! over!” frantic calls to his abandoned headset would go unheard.
they had no idea now.
he closed his eyes, teeth gritting. he can still feel call girl’s hand on his shoulder—reminding him the team used tough love. that was a lie. he never belonged with them—and he wished he knew that sooner.
a pair of footsteps lands a few feet behind him.
“wow. brave for approaching me, or really, really stupid? which works for you?”
he barely glances over his shoulder. his words now muffled due to the mask covering his mouth.
his eyes. cold and detached. with things better left unsaid.
“what do you want?”
he went rogue. officially.
saccharine, always saccharinе there's a war in my head don't think you wanna pretend