A/N: yeah this came to me on a whim, kind of a drabble.
uh, i love crazy tweek, i'm sorry.
enjoy~
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The silence is so thick I want to vomit and my eyes flicker with their paranoia. It's pressing in on me. On my ears, my face, my lungs. Suffocating and I just...
The bedsheets flip away from my body. I need air, I stand, I pace my room once, twice, take two breaths, once, twice, take two breaths, taste the air a moment and feel no better. I strip out of my clothing. I lay against the tile feeling panicked and captive.
I stare at my only possession apologetically. He's smiling back at me from behind no glass or plastic, that's strictly forbidden. I'm not suicidal, but I don't deal well with sharp things. They scare me. I'm scared to die.
I lay in my underwear, eyes still transfixed on his face.
I wonder if he remembers me.
I run my fingers through my hair, but it's not the same, laying face up in bed and trying to remember touching someone else in a memory. Days are passing like years and I ask what time it is every time I see someone, ask what day it is whenever I remember to, but always somehow forget what day of the week it is and what month it is. My hands slide down my forehead with fixed shapes adjacent to planks of wood.
My fingertips brush my eyelashes, dragging my eyelids down and sealing me into darkness. I'm told to do this, to help calm me down. I'm so uncomfortable. My throat is tight and air isn't coming in and out of me like I should. I finally open them slowly. He's still staring at me from my bedside table. I lean up, closer, and pull the piece of photo paper down to the floor with me. I check under the bed for anything harmful.
A spy? No. A gnome? Maybe. I glance down at my underwear before my eyes flicker up to the camera in the corner. Whatever, they're used to this. My eyes sink back down to my photograph as I spider my way back into bed, kicking the covers to take my place on the cold tile. My back prickles from the chill I got from the floor. I ignore it and stroke a sad fingerprint over his cheekbones.
He looks so determined. He's standing with faces that have been scribbled out so long ago I don't even remember who he was standing with in the photo. I squint; identify. Try to determine... The dark skin to his left suggests that that one was Token, only because he's in theory the only black boy who was in our highschool. I realize with slow dizziness that I've never taken this much time to evaluate the people around him before. Usually I'm fixed on his face.
His eyes are their usually hollow blue. I compare them briefly with the dark cerulean of his hat like I always do. I can practically feel the worn fabric under my fingertips as I run my thumbs over his shape. The yellow of the pompom on the top of said hat brings me to a few stray strands of blond to his right.
If they were lighter, I might have furiously figured it to be Kenny's or Butter's. But no, that strawy blond registers as mine. Me. That was me, I scribbled myself out. Why? Why'd I do that? Maybe to put more focus on the object of my love. Regardless, I pick at the pen marks with clipped back nails and find myself disappointed to only ruin my destroyed appearance even more. I discard myself and turn my eyes back to his face.
I hug the photo.
I feel less lonely this way.
Tears prickle my eyes. They sway, trying to pick out the shapes of my room around me through the layered dark. That feeling of suffocation has left but the silence is still there. Not even the underlying whir of an electronic in a quiet room. There is nothing; only the camera, and even it has it's own see-through enclosure. I wonder if anyone could hear me scream in here if I was being killed.
I almost throw up and clap my fingers over my eyes. I let my head spin and run my fingers through my hair again, trying to pretend I'm touching Craig's hair instead of my own, but my long stringy blond hair is nothing to the soft wiry black locks that I'll hold close to me forever.
Does he remember me?
He doesn't call.
Does he care?
He doesn't write.
Perhaps they're holding his letters and calls. Ones I'll never hear, because they find me unsuitable for public, but at least I have the dream that he does it. They called me criminally insane, and I called it justice. Justice... I didn't even get that justice. Justice for what. Love? It was hard enough for me to convince them to let me keep my photo. I'm not even homicidal. I never killed anyone. He lived. Tilting my head, I don't remember why I scribbled those faces out. I don't remember doing it.
I stare back at Craig's face finally, and then at the blond hair poking out next to his where the figure is leaning against his shoulder. My hands begin to tremble and my breathing quickens. That's not straw-blond, it's dishwater blond. There's a noise raising in the background and I'm not sure what it is, but it's growing in pitch as I start to tear at the photo with shaking limbs.
It's Thomas. It's Thomas, it's Thomas, it's Thomas, it's Thomas, it's Thomas, it's Thomas, it's Thomas.
The noise in the background finally breaks through the deafening fringe of silence and I realize it's me screaming as the door flings open and my fingers are bloody from various paper cuts as I shred the photo to ribbons, kicking, screaming, punching walls and punching people as they grab me for some kind of restraint. I get a bite in here, a kick there, until the jacket is on and I just scream louder while they pull out the syringe and I'm screaming about how I hate Thomas I hate Thomas I hate Thomas I hate Thomas I hate Thomas I hate Thomas I hate Thomas I hate Thomas I hate Thomas -
I hate Thomas -
I hate -
I... I...
I...
...