Living and Drowning II Self Para
Fitz stared at himself in his bathroom mirror, unsure who the reflection was. Gazing dazedly back at him was a tall boy who would have normally been handsome, but now had deep circles under his haunted eyes, which were looking out from an extremely pale face. It had been almost a week since he had gotten any sleep at all, and even that was just a short nap due to him not being able to hold his eyes open any longer. He hadn't been going down for meals, although occasionally his room mates had brought him food and forced him to eat it.
Fitz couldn't dredge up the effort to sigh, so he just looked away from the mirror and turned the knob on the faucet to wash his hands. One of his fingernails had started bleeding due to his incessant biting and picking at them, but this didn't faze him anymore. He just washed the blood off deftly, acknowledging but not reacting to the sting. He watched the pink water swirling down the drain, absently fascinated by the motion.
Once again a stinging pain nipped at his fingers as he dried his hands off, but it didn't hurt. Nothing hurt anymore, he had succumbed to a numbness that made all his movement seem involuntary. It was as if he was a puppet being pulled along by a string, able to move but not conscious of how he was doing it. Slowly, Fitz made his way to his bed and flopped back onto it, assuming the position he had been in for most of the last two weeks.
There was still the sense that he was waiting for something. He had expected all of his emotions, the realization that she was really gone, to hit him at once. However, he still hadn't cried. There hadn't been one singular moment that had crushed him, instead he was slowly sinking into nothing. The only thing keeping him awake at this point was the constant need to make things right. Before Arista had died, it was more of a nagging sensation in the background, an occasional problem that made some days harder. But now, it was much more intense.
Night was the best time for him now, when everything was dark and he didn't have to look. There was no need to open his eyes, and therefore he didn't have to count the number of buds on the tree outside the window and agonize that there was an odd number of them. He didn't have to make sure the bed curtain was exactly three quarters of the way closed, or that the book on his night stand was perfectly perpendicular to the wall. At the same time, night was the time when he had to try his hardest not to doze off. Because he knew, no matter what he did, he would have nightmares.
The nightmares were never the same, like snowflakes in the way that they were never identical. As another similarity to snowflakes, however, they always consisted of the same thing. Arista always died, he hadn't saved her, and it was always his fault. Each night horror ended with him waking up in a cold sweat, her pale face imprinted on his mind. The attention to detail he had been 'blessed' with made everything in the dreams more real, her voice eerily accurate and the thick smell of blood so very real.
And so he stayed in his room, during the day hiding from the light and the harsh reality of his compulsions, and at night laying awake dreading going to sleep. If he was being honest with himself, Fitz wasn't sure if he could really call what he was doing living, but at this point he had no idea what else he could do.
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