Hallow
It's hazy.
Everything's far away.
Like it's not tangible. Even the anxiety that ached your ribs felt distant.
A transparent fog became prominent when you opened your eyes, breathing in the iron-tasting air.
It was wet. And when you looked down you saw red, a lot of red. From your thighs, the blood. The blood. Shit.
It was a struggle to sit up -- the cuts stung and stretched, peeling open further. Dried blood had crusted over the bruising slits, making a dam for the blood.
You scooted to settle by the toilet, leaning back against the cool porcelain.
You tried to breathe. You couldn't, the air wouldn't enter all the way. You tried to breathe. You couldn't feel your lungs filling up.
The crusted scars brought a grimace to your face. You'd have to clean them if you didn't want them infected. But you couldn't seem to do much moving right now. Everything hurt.
What had you done?
You were just so tired of this. Why were you like this?
You closed your eyes, dreading the tears that burned your throat.
Then, you tried to think back. To what had happened.
Tony.
It was Tony -- he had come over and you got mad because he was... you got... scared, because he was...
You changed your mind. You didn't want to think of him, it brought a lump to your throat.
You had to clean this up. Clean everything up, and not just the blood. But everything. Your act, your history, your everything. You had to make sure nobody could see this, nobody could access you, nobody could break the walls down, nobody had to worry, nobody had to know. Nobody.
You let out a small hiss of pain as you crawled to your bathroom counters, pulling one open and blindly groping for the bandages. You extracted them, having knocked over a few things in the process. You sat back against the wood of the counter and unraveled the gauze, wrapping it around the harm. Wrapping it around the well-deserved harm.
It might get a but infected, but that was okay, you deserved that as well. You'd change the bandaging later.
Your sweats had been now severely stained with your blood, and the pool of it sitting not too far away only added to the experience, really.
The counter was used as a supporter to stand, and to walk to the door. Your thighs protested with continuous pain in each step
You grabbed the Windex from underneath the kitchen sink -- something you hadn't seen in a while. You grabbed the paper towels and headed back to the bathroom
You got back down on all fours, spraying and wiping up the blood.
It left a stain on the tile afterwards, the blood. A clear, pale red stain.
You get up and stagger to the cabinet, putting away the supplies respectively.
You locate your phone eventually and find yourself standing in your empty, cold living room.
The air conditioner was working.
You couldn't sit here.
You go to your bedroom and find the same empty, cold feeling sit plainly in your stomach.
You sit on the edge of your foreign feeling bed. Why didn't it feel the same?
You pull out your phone and stare blankly at the time: 10:26.
It sits sourly in your mouth.
You saw the text. The little thing from Tony.
Hey
You didn't respond.
You unlocked the device and checked your emails. Anything else. You couldn't think about Tony right now.
A mission request.
After nothing for weeks, you finally have one.
You don't feel anything.
Why don't you feel anything?
You send a quick email back, a simple acceptance.