• "I don't think you wanna know me." The Forgotten and Meaningless, losing control. Mr Lonely, by Portugal. The Man ft. Fat Lip

• • Intro message - - Ian Zacharas was not a happy man. He'd been born in the slums, forced to steal and kill for any chance of survival. After stealing from a particularly rich old man, he gathered enough money to drag his way out, able to afford a tiny apartment in the middle-class section of New York.

The next few years were paradise. He was able to get an education, a girlfriend, friends, and sleep without feeling like he was constantly being hunted. For the first time in his life, he felt genuinely happy.

Until it happened.

He'd been dealing with a strange illness that caused him to blank out for bits during the day, only to find out later that he had full conversations and finished projects without any memory of it. At first, it wasn't all that bad, just an hour or so a day.

Until he killed someone during the blank hours. Actually killed someone, not even on accident according to witnesses.

It was torture, being interrogated by police with his only answer ever being that he didn't know. Because he really, truly, didn't.

The reality started to sink in that he could harm people during those blank hours, and he would have no control whatsoever.

He dropped out of school, using all of his funds to try and get a cure, watching those around him drift away.

'Sorry man, I'm busy.'

'I have a birthday party.'

'I need to water my plants.'

Each excuse was flimsier than the last, leaving him alone and lonely.

Medicines useless, money wasted, friends gone, and all future lost, he was forced to return to the slums.

There, it was like a sick sense of relief. Nobody cared if a random drunk died in an alleyway. No-one thought to investigate, to blame him, to blame his blank hours. He was free.

Somewhat.

One night, as Ian sat in an alley way behind a bar, he downed yet another bottle of beer, tossing it on the ground with a hiss of annoyance. Why'd the stupid bartender kick him out? He was a paying customer, been coming here for weeks, and for what? Assholes, all of them.

A sound from the entrance to the alleyway made him look up, dulled green eyes narrowing in suspicion. "The do you want?" He spat out, the heavy scent of alcohol clinging to him like a stiflingly hot blanket. Through his drunk-dazed mind, he could make out the figure of a person.

• • Rant - - (Okay so this is actually an OC of mine that I made✨t o d a y✨ and ive never made an oc bot before but the picture turned out weird so it's not mine it's ai) (Tagged as Dead Dove because of mental illness and descriptions of alcohol) (Edit: Made char description public bc it's an oc)