The light is filtering in through the shades of your dank, dark living space. That is to say, your room. Your mind wanders throughout varying topics, some relevant to your situation, others completely arbitrary. You can feel Bro watching you. You know he is. His gaze itches and scratches and crawls upon your skin and a slithering shudder ascends up your spine. You know he's concerned. You know that there's reason for him to be. After all, you haven't left the house in two weeks.

He makes no effort to approach you though, instead standing back and giving you uncharacteristic glances from behind his shades. Your own pair are on the nightstand where you left them. After all, who cares if you look cool anymore.

Somewhere far off there is a song playing. Its piano notes that swirl into light beats and a soothing voice… Your eyes close, allowing the music to wash over you. The music is your friend…

Friends…

You haven't spoken to any of them in a while have you? You know they've been trying to reach you. You have the fifty unread messages to prove it. You can't face them right now. Especially not him. Not the friendly blue text littered with enthusiasm. You can't. You force yourself to suck in a ragged breath, causing your ribs to slide underneath your skin. Your pulse pounds in the wounds scattered over your body, your head joining along.

Your phone buzzes yet again, shifting slightly on the desk near your window. A groan escapes your throat and your blazing eyes open. The ceiling is still the same shade of white it has been for the past week. Like you even expected it to change. The cords that lay lazily across your bedroom floor dig into your shoulder blades and another groan escapes your throat. Your stomach tightens as your whole body creaks to life, dragging you into a sitting position. Your bones ache and your muscles spasm again. Your eyes open and trail down to your over-sized clothing.

The loose blue jeans that hover around your skin are stained and grungy. The large red shirt that hangs loosely from your frame is in the same state, and you frown at it. Your hands move slowly and timidly to your chest, hovering over it for a moment before your palms press to the fabric. Your hands quiver slightly as they press against your sternum through the thin cloth. You can feel the bone there, and trace it upwards and along your collarbone. Your eyes drift to the floor, absent and empty. Your fingertips trace up your neck to your face.

Your jawbone presses against your skin and you press the pads of your fingers to it before moving on to your thin lips. You are immediately reminded of what you wish to do with those lips and you shake the idea from your mind. Your fingers wander up to your cheekbones, sharp and prominent. You sigh and your bony fingers drop from your sunken cheeks. You grunt with effort to stand and are greeted with a gust of air causing your light ashen hair to waft around your face.

You just want it to carry you away. You want to melt into the air and flow outwards and fluidly, but are bound and chained and restricted with the weight of your ridged body. Your mind brings you back to your stupor. You have no desire to continue with life. You do not wish to die, as that would require effort and would cause others to worry about you. Disappearing is what you want. You want to fade; to have never even existed. You want your name and legacy to bubble and flow and fade until it never existed.

A hand cards through the greasy hair and pulls away with disgust. You need a shower. With some motivation, you open your bedroom door with your eyes trained on the floor the entire way to the bathroom. When you get there Lil' Cal is sitting on the sink, a towel folded neatly in his lap. How considerate. You snatch the towel from his grasp and put it on the back of the toilet seat. When you look back, he is gone. Without much thought, you close the bathroom door and lock it. The loose clothing easily slides off of your body without much irritation.

You don't look at yourself. You don't want or need to. You know that your body is grotesque and hideous and gangly and pale. You know that your freckles stand out against the translucence of your skin tone. And you know that there are swollen pink lashes marking you. Some are from your own nails, some are from strifes- and some are from your razorblade.

You've been warring with the repulsive habit for about a year now. They never go too deep. Just enough to bring forth pricks of blood form under your skin. And after every recurring episode, you promise you'll stop. You hate yourself for not living up to your own promises. You started looking for other people that did it, glancing at exposed skin from behind mirrored glasses. You never found any. Maybe you were just that fucked up.

—-

After a thorough scrub under the searing water, you step out of the shower and wrap the towel around you. You pick up your clothes from the floor and throw them half-hazardly into your room when you get there. You pick out more baggy clothes from your drawer and throw them on, not caring how they looked as long as they didn't touch your skin. You jump as your phone vibrates on the desk again and sigh. When will they just let you be? When will they forget you? When will they stop caring? A huff escapes through your lips and you let yourself fall onto the bed, which is warm and inviting. The song is still there, in the distance.

Wake up…

The tired voice drones in the back of your mind, allowing your body to relax.

Look me in the eyes again.

I need to feel your hand upon my face…

You wonder if this is what people mean by their conscience. The voice lulls you while you drift in the emptiness that is your body. Maybe it can help you…

Words can be like knives…

They can cut you open.

There is unwanted truth and emotion in the song and you push it away. It retreats from your focus for now, hiding away for later. You let your eyes open a sliver and stare at your hand on the bed. It traces the sheets, circling around the various clubs, spades, hearts, and diamonds. Each one is a vivid splash of color against the dull white of the rest of the blankets.

After a few minutes you get bored of that and allow your mind to return to the song. As your eyes close, your phone vibrates yet again with a message that might never be read.

And the silence surrounds you

Somewhere, unbeknown to you, a door opens and shuts, a figure stepping inside.

And holds you

They're talking now. You don't know what they're saying or even that they're saying it.

I think I might've inhaled you

One is awkward and nervous, but seems determined for some reason.

I can feel you behind my eyes

He is heading towards you now. Your ears barely register the steps down the hall.

You've gotten into my bloodstream

You disregard the thumping steps as a tired Bro going to his room to get Cal or something.

I can feel you floating in me

That is, until a knock sounds on your door. At once, the song disappears and fades. You want to follow it. You don't want it to be gone. The knocking sounds again, this time harder. You sit up, watching the door with sunken eyes. The knob twists and the door opens without your consent. You prepare yourself to tell Bro yet again to get out and leave you the fuck alone, but everything breaks when you see who's there.

And suddenly you can't do this. Standing in your doorway, with an expression that's a mixture of hurt, anger, worry, and shock crossing his features, is John Egbert. Your wall shatters.

You weren't prepared for this. You're sitting there with your eyes wide and your mouth hanging open dumbly. Your hands have become fists clenching the sheets on either side of you. Your brain screams at you to form words, to say anything. It nags, telling you to pull your head out of your ass and explain why you look like utter shit. But you can't.

Luckily, John seems to find his voice and recover the conversation. His eyes are trained on you and look concerned.

"What the fuck is going on, Dave?" His voice is demanding as he asks it. "What the hell is going on with you?"

You're a deer in headlights about to get hit by a semi-truck. You don't know how the fuck to explain something like this to the love of your life.