- (1.21MB, 1968x1283, still prog.jpg)
FUCK IT this picture isn't entirely done and the I'm more dissatisfied than usual with the writing but fuck it let's at least try to make a little progress.
[x] This can’t…
This can’t… really be happening, can it?
Breathe. Breathe. Come on. My feet may as well be made of lead for all the good they do me – taking a single step forward is torturously hard. Distant warnings blare in my skull, a miserable cacophony of shrieking klaxons, telling me that I don’t belong.
Something odious, thick – greasy almost, a sensation of disgust clinging to my skin and seeping into my bones; I’m a foreigner in my own home. Ha. Ha ha. The quiet has a cutting sort of gravity to it, simultaneously familiar and alien.
How? When did it come to this?
Was – is any of it…? Real? To begin with, wasn’t it all like some sort of – miserable dream? A miserable dream full of frantic motion, and fear, and change…
I can’t handle this. Not right now. I scrub at my face, rough and clammy and scarless, and hate the feel of bandages with every fiber of my soul.
Ten fingers, but. It feels like eleven. Knotted up, strained and bent. Twisted phantom awareness, waves of cold shivering through the nerves. But that’s… just some kind of lingering effect, right? Some kind of lingering aftereffect of a dream…
A dream full of pain. Impossible, unreasonable pain. Dreams are supposed to be painless, thoughtless; escapes into twisted visualizations of stress. So why?
My chest aches. Like I reached a hand inside and snapped off a rib, but somehow less – concrete. A metaphysical sort of feeling, an abstract sensation of loss; to describe it, it’s almost… I was reading a fairy tale and someone started tearing out the pages. Bitter, spiteful, desperate.
(…Me. I did. I ripped them up and tossed them in the fire. Nothing gained, nothing lost, and what I have left – I can’t lose it. Throwing away everything else, for here and now… that’s fine. That’s fine, that’s fine, that’s fi)
A wave of nausea crashes into the back of my throat, stomach clenching, hands curling tight into fists- but no. I let out a breath, steady and slow.
Really. It’s – nothing new, right? This sickening self-loathing.
It’s always been this way.
I hunch over the table that barely fits in my little kitchenette, old wood creaking softly as it supports my weight – I half expect to see a fancy tea cup, a saucer, sitting idly near the far end… but no. There’s nothing. At least half of me feels vindicated, taking solace in the monotonous emptiness of my, my home.
But… vindication doesn’t make the ache go away.
Even so. Even so, aches and pains are standard fare. When was the last time I didn’t have to deal with them?
So it doesn’t matter. Bills won’t pay themselves; this isn’t that kind of world.
Money is, scarce. Checking’s completely empty now. If I run out of cash (which is looking likely if I want to buy anything more expensive than a few gallons of gas and a pack of gum) I’ll have to dip into savings… which is more of a puddle than a pool now.
Fat lot of good that degree is doing for me in this job market.
But then I notice it.
A ringing, scything through the silence. Too harsh, much too harsh compared to the scratching of pen on paper. The uncomfortable, slimy feeling comes back, creeping along my skin like a steady humid rot.
This shouldn’t even take a moment of thought. Just answer the phone and be done with it. Just, just- answer the phone. And be done with it.
My hand just doesn’t want to-
Time’s running out.
[ ] Answer the phone.
[ ] Don’t answer the phone.