( chaosthxory ) -- -- 93:20:13:04:02
The fact he was awake was a feat all of it's own. He can feel the device curled in his grasp, but he can't bring his fingers to move, to use it. He could do it, he could of always did it, but he didn't. That was his problem. He couldn't just do anything lately... not for months. And the basement was cold. He rolled over and looked at the phone in his hand, hazel eyes narrowing at the cracked screen, his reflection staring back at him. And he hated it. Much more then twenty minutes ago when he checked to make sure he was still real.
The darkish blue settled under his eyes were like indentations, permanently marked into his already pale skin. There were veins running from his neck, to his arms, to his wrists... pulsing in a disgusting rhythm. His hair hadn't of been washed in what seemed like weeks, maybe even months,--time was no longer valuable--and it was thick around the nape of his neck, curling at odd ends, caressing his jaw carelessly. He hadn't of bothered to do anything with himself, just lay there, hearing the life he once had over top of him, and curling in to himself when he heard laughter.
He had been asleep three times in the past couple of months, which was a feat to maintain, but he had this nagging buzz in the back of his skull telling him that he should be wise not to close his eyes. He finally listened to that coo. He knew it would be safer here--far away from everything he loved, but he was still a masochist and pretended he was part of the life he ran away from. He was still pretending he was sitting there, laughing, like he was normal. It was a way to cope.
It hadn't of been enough for so long. His body was thirsty for it, his mind was a Sahara he couldn't cross quickly enough. Thoughts plagued him like mirages, hopeful gleams in the distance he wouldn't reach. And now, as he laid there, invisible to everyone he ever known, ever loved, it was devastating. And he couldn't reach the fountain to at least quench his thirst.
Or... he could of, but he always tripped himself up purposefully before he could reach it. Why? He was terrified. Nothing new for one lowly Vanile Jean. And he really was dying without the cool feeling trickling from his mind, to his throat, to his chest, and past his heart. And he knew he could solve it... should solve said problem... with one click of the button. But he kept stopping.
Because... what if she forgotten him? He had made no contact, no effort, no moves, and no plans. He just laid there and cried until his eyes were red and puffy. Sniffled until he was so weak it was hard to breathe. So why would she care now? Why would he even matter now? He didn't know, and he wanted to pretend he didn't care, but he had realized a month and thirteen days gone he loved her, and a month and fifteen to admit he needed her in his life.
So he couldn't figure out why he was struggling now, fumbling to make coherent decisions that could, really, alter his life. Or what was left of it. He clutched the phone tighter in his hands and wondered for another hour, listening to his slow, rhythmic heartbeat and his sleepy, dragging thoughts. He could feel his fingers slide over the screen with ease, it lighting up in his palm, questioning himself. It's all he ever did. Question and wonder.
He could even turn is head like so, slightly to the side, and peek through blurry eyes and flick his thumb up over the screen, know exactly where they were to go--like a habit he knew was always hard to break. He could even tap once, then twice, and watch he screen flicker from a blinding florescent to the friendly green, and he could listen to it ring.
"I'm sorry, but the person you are trying to reach
has a voice mail box that is currently full--"
And then there was a twitch of fingers as it slipped from his hands and he closed his eyes and knew he would pretend he was simply satisfied with hearing it crack as it fell to the floor.
annaxmalina
titsay
blakekathryn
stormborns
ellievsbear
