A Ryan Reeves story for me and the rest of us who are deeply saddened that he left. Honestly, what were those writers thinking?
This is set the episode before he leaves as we're going to pretend that the episode never existed :(
Panicking, his eyes shot open as his body shook with terror. Breathing quickly and deeply, he sat up in his bed and drew his knees up to his chest with his hands uncontrollably shaking. He wrapped his arms around himself for comfort as a sick feeling grew in his stomach. Feeling the urge to throw up, he clambered to his feet and felt the soft carpet on his toes. Swaying slightly, he grabbed onto his desk chair in an attempt to keep himself stable. As the sick feeling entered his throat his grip tightened on the back of the chair and his knuckles turned white. Frantically searching for something to throw up in, he resorted to the grey metal bin beside his desk. His skinny body wrenched as bile and a disgusting carrot substance was spat into the white bin liner. As another load of sick came up the fifteen-year-old boy felt a tightening pain in his chest. Feeling restless, he sat on the floor and leant back against his bed. With a sigh, he used his hoodie sleeve to wipe away a smear of sick from his mouth. The smelly substance left a small yellow stain on his grey cuffs.
Looking up, the clock on his bed side table read 04:00 in bright blue figures. The light blinded his eyes and he had to look away almost instantly by shielding his face with his arm. There was no way he was gonna get back to sleep now. These night terrors had become a frequent occurrence in his nightly routine so he was used to getting barely any sleep. No wonder he was so moody during the day. As a waft of sick tickled his nose he thought it best to dispose of the bin's content. Grabbing his black Vans trainers, he put them on and lifted the bin liner out of the bin, quickly tying it off with a tight knot. Quietly opening his bedroom door, he slowly began to tiptoe down the stairs, watching out for the creaky thirteenth step.
As he reached the bottom, he walked into the kitchen, to the back door and took the key from the shelf with his spare hand. Unlocking the door, he carefully opened the black bin and threw the bag inside. Trying not to slam it, he shut the bin lid and stepped back inside. Locking the door, he placed the key back on the shelf and wandered over to the sink. He washed his hands, feeling glad that he'd controlled the shaking. After drying his hands on the tea towel he quietly tiptoed back upstairs and into his bedroom. Shutting the door behind him, he glanced at the clock again. The figures screamed 04:10 in their blue flare.