The Torments of a Madman
When consciousness first streams into him, all he feels is the sleepy obliviousness of near sleep, and the prickling of a million microscopic needles against his fingertips—too concentrated to fully ignore, but faint enough that he, having experienced it every day of his life, can adjust. But as soon as he settles into the comfort of not thinking, not knowing, not realizing…pain explodes through his body. The needles travel along his nerves, scraping into his core, into his heart, into his brain. They devour his senses, demanding his attention, until he tears the covers off and nearly destroys the nearest objects.
Is it so wrong for him to want to die?
The pain stimulates the oddest neurons at times. One moment, he'll feel excruciatingly alive, boiling in pain. The next instant, delusions will send his head swimming. The air conditioning above becomes hurricane-force gales; the figure of Shinn, across the room, becomes Le Creuset, reading a book of fairytales; the glowing alarm clock beside him appears akin to the angry, fuzzy orbs of distant gundam battles.
Perhaps he relishes these delusions as much as he relishes sleep. They allow him to escape reality for even a few moments more; although the dream world is far more extreme and far more grotesque than real life, at the very least, he knows that none of it exists. He can wish it away with the blink of an eye.
That used to be enough comfort.
As a boy, playing piano, he wondered why the most beautiful sounds would fill the air, yet simultaneously searing pain would fill his spine. As a teen, on the field, he wondered why pulling triggers caused himself more pain than the person at the barrel's other end.
Now, though, he no longer wonders. Instead, he wakes in the mornings to drag himself to the bathroom mirror. He leans over the counter, nearly falling into the sink. Wide, startled blue eyes, crazed by pain, glare at the mirror. But they glare at him first. If not for his existence in the first place, he would not lean on the counter, his face would not crash against the glass, he would not crack the pill bottles to pieces in search of relief.
Except he does. And he will. Not for long...
...but too long anyways.
