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personification of adhd
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In the murky blackness of Brendan's world, he could hear little scratches of noise. Nothing interesting. Nothing /notable/ at least.

Speaking. Voices. Voice, not voices.

It was night, and he was tired, he didn't want to speak to anyone. He just wanted to tell himself what a stupid thing he'd done, been doing, whatever, and loath himself over his stupid stupid decisions over and over and over again until he got tired of it. Cause that's what you do when you want to save everyone and you can't, you mope. Brendan moped.

He tried pulling his legs in closer, but they wouldn't move without warping his bag into impossible positions. His arms grabbed each other and yanked. If he could just pull himself out of this world and into a new one...

...or he could just harden the fuck up and go out there. He wasn't just some cannon fodder here. If he'd survived this long, then he had to have something looking out for him.

Brendan opened his eyes, the world retaining that little shade of blue it always did after a while of closed eyes but awakened senses. Few blinks, then it was gone. He turned his legs cross-legged, and yanked the bag out from under them, plopping it straight into the tangled mess of lap.

He reached around, feeling for the tab of the zipper. It was still dark, even with the pale waning moon, so any chance of a good view tonight were abysmally low. Finally, he grabbed ahold. The bag came open pretty quietly, not as loud as he'd expect a zipper to be, not that he was taking measurements or anything.

The flashlight was sitting prominently on the top of the mess, somehow have become mixed up like he was running a cocktail bar here. More fumbling, and he had some light. Brendan didn't know how much light was being used here, but he had a focus he couldn't break from.

The gun was pushed into the corner of the bag, and the ammo was stuck beside it. He pulled it out, sat it snugly in his left hand while he looked it over with the flashlight.

Okay, so far it didn't look that ba-

His musings were cut short by a few factors. One of the was his inability to notice the mosquito that buzzed through the air and landed on his "trigger finger" as it was. The other was his unawareness of said mosquito biting him. Another was him not being able to control the sudden reflexive constraint his finger forced him to do, which happened to clench down on the trigger, and...the ringing was still going strong in his ears, like they'd had bells shoved into them and it was the 12 o'clock feeding frenzy. He watched the casing fly into the sand, and his flashlight drop in almost the same place, while he was unable to stop himself from letting out...some sort of sound.


He didn't know what else to do. Never in his life had he been so close to a gun being fired, and he knew that it was probably gonna be his last time, too.

I probably...should have found the safety first...aaaaoooowww...
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I can't sing but I wrote you a song

Wrong notes but the melody's so clear

When I'm lost, I'm still close to gold

cause I found my treasure in you
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Birdland · The Greens