It hurt.
He didn't want to waste precious seconds on that useless thought, but by the gods it hurt.
Will could feel himself getting peeled inside out, falling apart even as he thought. And he cursed whoever it was who had thought it would have been a good idea to wake up that morning. Forget that it was he himself who had done it, however involuntarily. The teen needed something to hate, something that wasn't himself.
It was getting kind of hard not to hate himself, though. Hate himself and these godawful moments when he could think straight, think right - mind out of sync with his body. He felt like a musician whose fingers were moving faster than the notes he played. Disjointed.
So disjointed.
Disjointed like the way his fingers felt they would be after hours and hours of working nonstop. Disjointed like he thought his tongue might be if it didn't stop mindlessly agreeing to things.
(disjointed like the way his heart couldn't be if it would just wake up along with the rest of him.)
Moments of lucidity - moments like this, where he could actually, truly see and feel and comprehend what was happening to himself - yes, they were hard to come by indeed. And for that he was grateful.
If he thought rationally like this for any much longer, he was fairly certain he would go mad.
Sight is the greatest curse. He would work. He would see Evanlyn. She would speak, he would hear, but he would not answer. It made him want to scream, but he could not do that either. He merely kept moving, possessed by some demon of the cold that wound its long, sinewy arms around the bones in his legs and arms and hands. Cold. Not only did it hurt, but it had to be cold, too.
If he had the ability to move freely, he would have killed himself by now. Killed himself for not trying - for not being able to even consciously want to try. Killed himself for not being strong enough to resist what they were doing to him. Killed himself for taking the drug every. Damn. Time.
Died from the pain of watching a hand that could not, should not, and was not his own hand moving forwards and doing things he did not want it to do.
That was how he rationalized it. If you can't control it, it's not yours, is it?
Logic is a cold thing and brings no comfort, he found. It was the way of the world because the world was exactly like it. Some part of his mind had woken up again at that, shrieking at him for even daring to think such things, for not holding on, for being so weak.
He told that part of himself to shut up, and resumed his silent watchings from behind his own icy eyelids.
When the moment had first began, he had wanted to strangle something for wasting seconds on a thought so useless. And now he was sitting in silence.
Someone had once told him that if he couldn't improve the silence, he shouldn't say anything at all. He supposed that they hadn't meant any kind of silence, only a certain type - one that spoke for itself, one that didn't need words from a human tongue or mind to mar it. This kind of silence, the one that weighed heavy on his mind, taking away the pain he had woken loathing and would slumber loving.
A gray tendril wrapped itself around one ghostly manifestation of the arm that truly belonged to Will, signifying the beginning of the end of his conscience. And he wonders how long it will have been when it vanishes once more.
Disclaimer: Don't own.
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-sm12