•Panic attack, implications of nudity, implications of explicit actions

In were slow breaths of smoke, swirling around the corners of his mouth and down his throat. Out came tension and regret in wispy rings. The grey smoke curled and danced in the air before dissipating— rising alongside the morning sun. Abraxas' body felt tired despite being asleep only a little while ago, his clothing — or rather his trenchcoat— still reeking of alcohol. 

The balcony that he leaned against was small, as expected for an apartment. Well-kept flowers sat upon the table, the bright yellow of the petals making him almost feel bad for polluting the air around them. Almost. Noticing the shiver that went up to his spine from the cold floor against his bare feet, he took another puff. Repeating the action over and over.

Inhale.

Exhale.

Inhale.

Exhale.

Over and over and over.

The repetition could make him sick, the toxic smoke not far behind. The actions became less of coping and more of habit— knowing the way how the nicotine made him lose focus, making the headache disappear. Yet becoming aware of how little it did at the same time. It did nothing to invigorate his heartbeat, his breathing barely altering. 

The vigour it brought his body was now almost nonexistent. But even then he pursued the drug as if it was a lifeline. A machine's whose cord had wrapped around his neck and tightened with every move. It was killing him–

Ha, if only.

Soft footfalls came from behind him, though he did not move to turn as he already knew who it was— or at least who it was supposed to be.

"Hey," The person said in a high pitched voice, one still drunk on sleep. "Are you leaving?"

"Yes," He said bluntly, voice deep and rough from the sleep and the smoke. They made him too tired to even pretend to give a shit. 

"It's still early, come back to bed," She whined, he could already imagine the way her lips would curve into a pout: it's not like it would make a difference. 

"Listen–" He couldn't even remember her name as he rubbed the cigarette on her wall to out it. "–I have to leave, my life doesn't wait for people like you." Momentarily blinking that the rudeness that wasn't there the night before, she asked.

"Will we get to meet like this again?" Doubt. "Or have a date sometime?" Never.

"Maybe," He muttered, quickly picking up his shirt and pants from beside the bed, trying to leave as fast as possible. She smiled a little at the faux hope as he walked past her, throwing the cigarette into her trashcan. Not bothering to return her wave goodbye, he opened the door and stepped into the hall.

Static.

That was the disgusting, bone-scraping noise his ears chose for today. The sound only growing louder as he recalled the night before and the way he ruined it like a fool. They weren't even asking a question— everything they said was hypothetical. Even if it wasn't, they were still unsure. Even then, he acted like a fool and ran away.

Ran away as he did before. Just repeating history over and over again. Different characters acting in the same play with him as the screenwriter, director and choreographer. Leaving him alone at the end in mourning as if he wasn't the very fucking cause. 

Static turned to hissing— like sizzling water within his skull. It hurts. It hurts. It hurts. It hurts as the fire heating the water rolled down his neck onto his back. Onto his legs. Trailing to his arms and his hands and his fingers. It hurts. It hurts. It hurts. All he wanted— needed— was just a few moments of silence. 

Rushed footsteps boomed like thunder with Zeus stabbing lightning rods under his skin. Screaming and crying children sounded like hoards of banshees. A taxi finally came to his rescue and he made sure to get a spot. 

All he had to do was pretend. He was good at that. Pretend that his being wasn't being burnt alive by fire lit within his messed up psych— his imagination honed and trained to destroy every and any trace of joy and peace he received. All he had to do was sit quietly, then pay, then leave. That's all he has to do.

And that's what he did— because at least he can do one thing right. He almost sprinted to his room, locking the door after slamming it close— as if a murderer was chasing him. 

His skin was a bodysuit a few sizes too small in what felt like one hundred degrees heat. His lungs trembled like a child naked in a blizzard. His hands shaking and shifting and moving more than the earth's tectonic plates during an earthquake. He had to do something. There must be something he can do. 

His hands dug into his hair, gripping and tugging at the roots. It hurts, but at least this really did hurt. At least this was real. His back pressed against the wall as he slid to the floor, landing with a thud. His eyes were blurry yet dry— maybe that's why they were blurry— as they searched for something to focus on. Something other than himself.

They traced the crevice where the wall and floor meet; it wasn't painted very well. There was a line of the wall that was still unpainted. That was a mistake. That mistake was probably in the other rooms— the other apartments. His eyes glued themselves to the unpainted line as he remained as a broken doll whose arm held on by a few worn threads.

-

The sun rose and fell as he did nought. Hours passed by as he sat on the floor, the air around him feeling like magma under a volcano. He burned and burned and burned. But even then he did not care. 

Saturday started and ended, him having no part in it. The stars were mocking reminders of the longer he remained in this stupid self-pity, the more he increased the chance of actually losing Charlie. Losing? He never had them in the first place. He could never— not a chance in one hundred years, or even a millennium— be able to have someone like that.

With that set in stone within his mind, he turned away from the moonlight— flinching from the noise made from his shuffling clothes. 

Sunday arrived. It felt like a pit had embedded itself into his torso. A pit of snakes to be exact. Like the slithering vermin found residence between his organs and abandoned land. It drank his blood like water, used his lungs like bedding. It squeezed and poked at his stomach, a constant reminder of the organ being null and void of anything besides acid. It teethed on his ribs with every shallow inhale. 

Despite the absolute agony, he did nothing; the refection of the moonlight— the stars— hurting more than any pair of fangs ever could. Even then, he did not move.

Monday?

His job, so insignificant at this point, he had his shift today. He felt sorry for whoever had their shift before him as the guidelines stated that a worker couldn't leave until the other arrived. He didn't what time it was but noon was probably already approaching.

He'd probably lose his job. Then he'd be unable to pay his rent and get evicted. Maybe this was his life going downhill once again— maybe. 

His limbs felt stiff and he could feel a bruise forming his hip, the bone squishing against the floor for too long. Even then he didn't move as that would probably hurt more. So he stayed there. Slowly wasting away yet death was not at the end of his tunnel.

His mind was filled with. . . something. The cacophony blurred and distorted with the silence, resulting in a deafening quiet— one where he was unsure if they were actually noises around or just his sadistic mind playing tricks on him again. It was calming though, the painful orchestra having met its crescendo and was now silencing. While that was coming to an end, it seemed as if the pain had no such plans. So even in silence, he suffered.

Huh, isn't that reminiscent?

Some time had passed. How much? He wasn't sure. What he did know was that he was hurting. That's all he seemed to do these days.

But pity was not a luxury gifted to him, lying stagnant against the floor would be giving in to his desire to just melt into the floorboards and let his bones change to dust. He could do many things but that was not one of them. All he was doing was wasting time instead of wasting away. 

So with shaky and bruised limbs, he rose and resumed life— resumed survival. He used weathered hands to pick up the jagged pieces of himself despite the gathering cuts. To tighten the lid to his overflowing jar of emotion. To tighten it despite the cracks. To not let a single drop fall and stain the earth more than he had before. To keep the molten lava and raging infernos to himself despite the burns.