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ian woke up tired. ian woke up. he’d slept. and quietly groaning, he found that to have been a poor choice. closing his eyes again and pulling the blanket up further, he gave up before even starting the day. well, not necessarily gave up, more so he lost. something had come in the night and soldered his skin cells to the mattress fibers.
the bed was empty. mickey’s been gone for hours by now, he assumed, knowing his lover wouldn’t have the heart to wake him up now that he’d finally been able to sleep other than uncontrollable microsleeps and power naps. he was hungover and his muscles were all but useless from not taking his meds on time. reluctantly, he managed to, after roughly ten minutes of just laying there, reach over to the nightstand and grab his pill bottles, swallowing them dry.
the general mood he was in practically suffocated him. a mixture of total vacancy and emotional malaise, like concrete that had been poured over his sleeping body, solidifying overnight. he went from zoned so far out he was practically in a parallel universe to seeing vivid recollections of the past eight days. every time he laughed too loud, every time he’d talked too much, every hour he stayed up pacing like a tweaker, as well as working on his sudden urges to rearrange furniture and write poetry with the wholehearted belief it would gain any recognition. every worried look, every set of car keys that had been hidden and knives not locked up, but hidden. all he was grateful for was that he wouldn’t have to get up and see a mirror, or eat and see her reflection in the metal of his utensil. he knew all too well from the biased beatings and way everyone walked on eggshells around him following the diagnosis that this was what everyone subconsciously or not saw coming. it was far too fitting. it solidified his role as the black sheep of the family now that he was without a doubt a walking reminder of everyone’s traumatic experiences. of his own even, yet he loved his mom as though she’d even tried, no, as though she’d gone above and beyond for them. and he hated himself for it. yet he saw no point in doing so, even though he couldn’t control it. he didn’t just look like her now. he was her.
hours later, he dragged himself into a sitting position and reached for a pack of smokes and a lighter. before he could get a cigarette between his lips, his eyes focused on the lighter. he absentmindedly flicked it until he held the flame so long the metal was burning his fingers. he let go of the spark wheel and thoughtlessly pressed the metal into his forearm. despite the immediate flinch and hiss at the burn, he held it there until he physically couldn’t, his brain forcing him to pussy out as he dropped the lighter on the sheets next to him. breathing a little heavy, he had no obvious reaction whatsoever to the pain he’d inflicted as he stared intently at the smiley face shaped redness as it blistered up. he still felt nothing, but it was a good kind of nothing for once. he didn’t even want the cigarette anymore.