Null
"Yer a fuckin' mess, Lennon."
It comes out as a whisper, blinded under the sound of the running water in the sink. He cups his hands underneath the stream to collect the clear liquid, and splashes it onto his face. The stray water droplets accumulate at the fringe of his musty brown moptop when he lifts his head.
A wet hand reaches for the handle on the sink labeled "C" for cold. The string of water is cut off, leaving a few continuous drips from the faucet head.
John watches his reflection. The whites of his eyes are no longer white, but pink. Bloodshot from crying. It made the deep brown in his irises look even more concealing. Nostrils flared in and out at the shaky intake of breath. Thin lips chapped from the many attempts to breath normally.
