Warnings for: Self-harm, dissociation, depersonalisation

Sketches of fashion figures were pinned on his wall. He had a few interviews in his drafts. There were stacks of papers all filled out and organised. Waseem's homework, what else and whose else's honestly? Black tapped the pen against the backs of his fingers. Back and forth in a quick, jerky, restless motion. That's what he was – restless. Another one of his episodes was coming. He could feel it in the back of his skull. Sometimes, he could stop himself and have a pot of coffee before anything serious could happen. A whole pot of coffee reserved just for him. Sometimes, he even made two cups: one for him and the other for his nerves.

He ran his tongue against the inside of his bottom lip. Something was bothering him, and it was coming up quick. It made his stomach churn endlessly, and he felt like throwing up. This was more than just anxiety. He knew this feeling all too well. Sometimes, he fell out of touch with it, but when it came back, it was almost as if this tremulous feeling had never truly left. He scratched under his chin and winced at the pain. The skin was raw and tender; he had scratched himself too much.

He set down his pen and rolled his palm against it before picking it right back up again. Between the rolling and the gathering, inspiration and productive thoughts flickered through his brain, but as soon as the utensil was righted back into its position, the thoughts vanished again. Black narrowed his eyes at the screen and felt irritation quicken his heartbeat. Defeated, he pushed himself away and headed to his couch to wait for Waseem.

Time trickled on and on and on… Whenever he glanced at the clock, his breath caught in his throat. He checked his phone over and over until his skin started to crawl. He set the device face down by his thigh, but that didn't make anything better. It made the crawling worse, and it felt as though skin and muscle were plotting against him. They were steadily driving him crazy. Foggy thoughts scrawled across his disorientated mind. He couldn't pin down the hurried, muffled words clouding his mentality. He brought his hands up to his head, an empty sign of comfort, and immediately jerked his hands down again. It wasn't right. Something in his gut kept him from reaching up and out. Something warned him that the touch would only further his pain, but he needed the comfort – however hollow it was. He placed his palms to his forehead, and the warmth of his own hands only made his thoughts spin again. The crawling stopped and instead turned into a tingling at the place of impact. Directly on his spine was a feeling he couldn't describe. It was almost as if a single finger was trailing down while a nail was trailing upward. They worked in slow tandem and it was too much.

There was a knock at his door, and Black shot up. The noise was so sudden. It echoed in his mind, and honestly, it was enough to almost make him cry. The threat of tears somehow calmed his body. The tension left; the cloudiness slowly faded, leaving him weak and congested. The trailing didn't relent, and so he swayed to one side – then the other, hoping beyond hope that the feeling would stop. He brought his hands around his body as if he were cold and called out "Come in!" even he didn't want it.

He barely registered the smile on his face when Waseem thundered into his room. The young boy ran over and jumped in the air, tucking his legs under his body before bouncing on the couch next to Black's side.

"What're you hugging yourself for?" Waseem asked with a tilt of his head. "It's not cold."

The lie came quickly. "Ooh, I got goosebumps." It was almost disgusting.

"Goosebumps!?" Waseem shot up and hugged himself too. He rubbed his arms frantically. "What does that mean?"

Black grinned in response and felt his entire body go hollow. That was preferred over to what he had experienced. "Let me show you! Hold out your arm."

Waseem held out his left arm, letting his other fall at his side. Black took the child's wrist with his right hand. With his left, he ran his nails very, very gently up Waseem's arm. "Whooooa!" filled the air before Waseem jerked his arm back.

"That's weird!" He looked down at his arm, staring at the little raised bumps. "Waah! Black, look! Look!" He held out his arm and rocked forward onto his knees.

Black laughed nervously and hoped that it didn't show on his face. The enthusiasm, the proximity. Black wasn't sure he was ready to talk with another human being today, and this was his resounding proof that he absolutely was not. He cupped Waseem's tricep, staring at the goosebumps he had created.

"See! Those are goosebumps!"

"That's so weird," Waseem mused, his voice drawing low with awe.

He pulled his arm away, staring at the skin between his bicep and tricep. He seemed dazzled by the little bumps, and Black was just happy to have a small bit of space left. After a moment, the young boy lowered his hand down and smiled up at Black.

"Thank you for holding onto my homework for me."

"It's no problem," Black replied with a smile. The smile on his face felt genuine as did the ease in his voice. Honestly, he was happy to have done such a small favour. "How did cleaning go?" he asked as he pushed up onto his feet.

Waseem waved his hands over his head. "We cleaned the whooole house!" He hopped from his position and followed behind Black. "We even cleaned the storage! And we threw out a lot of stuff! But I get to play video games for helping out."

Black placed his hands on the stack of papers. He sorted through and made sure none of his items had gotten caught up in all of that. With a nod, he gathered everything and reached for a pencil.

"That's good. Make sure you level up, so we can play together."

"I will!" Waseem's eyes squinted closed as he smiled with his whole heart.

Black could see it in his periphery. Even though he smiled, he felt a despairing spike race down towards his stomach and spread a chill through his body when it connected. He twirled the pencil in his hand and turned towards Waseem.

"Wanna do one last review before you take it away?"

"Yes please!" The child replied, climbing up into the office chair.

The distraction was more than welcome. Black found himself more than invested in the basic homework. Some of the questions had been nostalgic for him. He found himself furrowing his brows at strangely worded questions and had the grace to look surprised when Waseem called him out on it.

"This isn't your homework, Black!" Waseem teased.

Black drew up the paper he was scrutinising. "I know, but listen to this! There's no way this makes sense."

He read the question out loud and then picked it apart with carefully structured sentences. He made sure not to swear in front of Waseem, which made him stutter through his statements at time. The youthful laughter was welcomed, and Black relaxed shortly after. He slid the paper back to Waseem and continued to help him through.

Time passed by, and Black couldn't say if it went too quickly or too slowly. He gathered up Waseem's papers and placed them into a manilla folder.

"Will you need this back?" the young boy asked.

Black waved a hand. "Nah, I've got plenty. Don't sweat it."

"Okay!"

Black walked Waseem to the front door, and with each step, he could feel his calm melting away. His eyes widened slightly when his heart skipped a beat. He held the door open without realising it, and Waseem headed through in front of him.

"Thanks again," came the appreciative tone.

Black blinked and managed a smile. He hoped Waseem didn't see. "No problem. You better get smarter with me helping you."

Waseem grinned. "We'll see!"

They shared a brief wave, and Black calmly, quietly, carefully closed the door.

And that's when he lost track of time.

It hit him so suddenly when he watched Waseem's retreating back. There was a source to this restlessness. He couldn't see it; he couldn't imagine it. He remembered Ameer, Ameer's back, Ameer's grave. He remembered something else – someone else, walking away from him as well.

There was the sense of dread. His safety was leaving him, and suddenly he was vulnerable. He staggered away from the door — and again, away from his office chair. His back hit the couch, but he didn't remember when. He cupped a mug of coffee tight but was washing it clean in the next moment.

Safety, continuity, his hold on reality had all slipped out of his reach and was lying in pieces like his mug on the floor. He brought a hand up to his mouth and was alarmed by the unfamiliarity. The touch didn't feel like his own. It was clammy and distant. He ripped it away from his face and slammed his knuckles against the counter. The pain surged up his arm and suddenly he could make sense of everything again.

As if coming to some realisation, he whipped around, staring wide eyed towards his impromptu workspace. He knew how to make it all go away. He knew how to make these feelings leave him just like them and leave him just as his friendships had.

Empty.

The razor was in his hand before he could access it.

The pain wracked his arm before he could look at it.

Pain in his arm through the skin on his body. He sighed loudly, and the sigh trembled, broke into quaking sobs. His blood dripped on the floor and onto his pant legs.

Bandages strewn the floor and bloody blades joined them. They sat around his feet like a broken, useless halo. He stood in the dark; the razors glinted in the moonlight. He hadn't cleaned them yet but had a mind to grind his feet into them. At the thought, his mind raced with something new. Muffled words and blurry images tumbled through his brain, leaving him something beyond anxious, restless, and woeful. He crashed to his knees and reached out again.

When he opened his eyes, he was grasping at nothing. The room was lit again. His body felt heavy like he was pulled out of a dream. He blinked the sleep away and sat up slowly. His arms felt numb, and he knew why that was. He knew the reason but not really why. His chest felt warm; the rest of him was warm. He yawned and mentally shrugged it off. He wasn't in the mood for anything right now.

He pulled himself up towards the kitchen and made himself a cup of coffee. There was a weariness in his bones that he could feel. His entire body felt as though there was air between his joints, but he felt no amount of stretching would ever make it go away. He tried anyway. Something in him demanded it; call it necessity or instincts, but he listened anyway.

When his coffee was ready, he searched for his mug only to find it fragmented in a dustpan at the end of his counter. He blinked slowly at it and pulled out a new one from the cupboard. Again, he was too tired to deal with it all. He would ask questions later. He poured himself a cup and turned around, pressing his back to the counter. On the couch, he could see a black mop of hair. Someone was sitting with their back to him. He closed his eyes and took a sip from his mug. They were gone, and he was sleepy. That was his excuse.

He pushed himself away from the counter and headed to his desk. He might as well get some work done. He found a couple of papers on the ground and winced at the sight of blood spots on the fashion figures. Damn, and he really liked these.

He took them back to his desk and set down in front of them. The mug was set to his left side and he grabbed a pen from his right. There was fresh paper already awaiting him. The task now was just to copy the figures and trash the tarnished originals. So he started to do just that.

He ripped up and trashed the first one, depositing it into the trash bin at his knee. As he started on the second, he found his vision swimming, and he wasn't able to focus. He sighed through his nose and took a break, staring at the wall ahead with little interest. The coffee mug was warm beside his arm. The pen rapped brutally against his knuckles, and his mind clouded over.

He could feel another one of his episodes coming on. He felt it in the back of his skull.

And a familiar stare bored into his head, causing the voices of his memories to rumble noisily.