A/N: I wrote this while on the train when I was coming home for the premier of Civil War in my country, so it's a bit rough, kinda abstract, and might not make much sense because it's more conceptual writing than anything else. That being said, I sort of like it, and I had to write *something* to help me deal with my Tony feels.

xxx

Each night is another battle to get through, the images clouding your mind the second your eyes flutter shut. Nothing gets rid of them, despite each desperate try. The solace you create during the day disappears as the light goes out; every thought hitting full force without the distraction of being constantly busy.

You don't sleep. Can't sleep.

You have to, though; are forced into unconsciousness by sheer exhaustion. When it happens, it isn't for very long, and it definitely isn't peaceful.

The voice of a mother, of blame, will rip you from sleep; icy words having the same effect as icy water. You'll wake with a gasp, the words repeating over and over and over until—

One drink, and then another, and another, and another after that. It's not a healthy way to cope. You know it isn't. But it doesn't stop you, nothing does, and soon you're well past One Too Many, where the images are distorted and the words incomprehensible.

The alcohol makes you drowsy, though, and sleep is inevitable. Thankfully, it dulls everything, blocks out the voices, until—

Until flashes of a body falling from the sky play behind your eyelids, over and over, the all-consuming fear not dulling in the slightest. It doesn't get easier the second, third, thirtieth time. The guilt only gets worse, despite every time you tell yourself he was too quick to catch, too quick to stop.

It's not what you meant to happen, not at all. It's not what you wanted. It's not—

Sleep comes again, and when it does, images of loved ones blossom behind your eyelids, bloody and broken. Fault. Your fault, your—

Sweat stains the sheets. Your clothes. It makes them cling to your body, sticky and warm and uncomfortable, like you walked in the pouring rain, like the tears you caused soak your skin. You feel like you're drowning it in, like you're—

Gasping, choking. Strangled breaths fill the room, and your chest heaves with them, your eyes watering as you try to halt your panic. Your throat closes, and not enough air gets in. There isn't enough space for it to get in; there isn't, just like—

Your mother's face haunts you more than anything. You can picture, so vividly, the delicate span of her neck, the smooth skin crushing beneath his hand. There had been no sound with the video, but you can still hear the choking, can still hear her gasping and gurgling, so desperately—

Anger. Fierce and burning, it swirls through your veins, setting your body alight. It makes you want to punch something, destroy something, anything, everything. You have outbursts, when you think no one's looking, but they're small, not enough to ease anything, not enough to calm you down, to stop the replaying of memories. Nothing is ever enough, and you—

You don't sleep. You can't sleep. If you had it your way, you wouldn't.