Another oneshot drabble... depressing as usual :p Enjoy!
He's fallen into a routine.
He wakes up ridiculously late into the morning. Stumbles to the bathroom. Usually throws up. Showers, washes his hair, wipes the smeared makeup from his cheeks.
Back to his room, and it takes an hour, maybe more, to put together an outfit he thinks is suitable. That he thinks will impress him. He tells himself, over and over, that there's no point. Whispers his mantra as he applies fresh makeup, straightens his hair. It could be midday by now. His empty stomach grumbles, and he goes in search of food.
Into the kitchen, and he rakes through the cupboards. He can never find anything of substance. Usually he'll have a glass of juice and that's it.
And then he stands at the top of the stairs, willing himself to go down there. Trying to build up the confidence to face him. He tells himself not to be silly. Repeats it to himself a few times, whispering frantically. He listens for sounds, proof of his existance. Listens to footsteps, coughs, rustlings, the noise of the ebb and flow of customers.
Finally, when his knees begin to shake from the effort of holding him upright, he plasters that forced grin across his face, forces his bounce down the stairs, forces that cheerful greeting, that nonchalent put-down, that relaxed flop into the barber's chair by the window, and only then lets himself breathe.
Sometimes his routine slips. He hates himself for it. Like that day. When he slipped, and failed, and he hated himself all over again.
He fell asleep. The late night, the struggle to go on, the comfy chair, they all lulled him into needing sleep, and he napped, and he slipped.
He remembers jolting awake, and his concerned face, and the sweat on his forehead and clammy hands, and the trembling, and the tears, and the nightmare. Daymare. Whatever.
He remembers questions aimed at his well-being, scorn for his night-time activities, concern for his health. He remembers digressions to diet and lifestyle, and extra worry. He remembers shutting down, shutting him out, just... stopping. Just for that short while, completely stopping.
He remembers panicked friends, wonderings of who to alert, overall decisions to just LEAVE HIM ALONE, being carried to bed, tucked in, left alone.
That's a new technique he's perfected. When things get too much, when too many of his issues, his ugly, disgusting issues, are raised, he just ignores everything. The rest of the world doesn't exist. It's just him and his thoughts. Nothing else registers. But he remembers, later, at night or the next day, he relives it. And he hates himself. So much.
He worries the most, and that hurts the most.
He has another way of forgetting. That's how he spends the night, out on the town, dancing, drinking, forgetting. He loves it. He hates it. Most of the time, he doesn't know. The alcohol burns, the lights swirl, the drumbeat is so low it pulls at his chest, but he just lets it pass by. This is the norm for him. He's back onto the routine, and that makes him comfortable.
And then there's the taxi home, tripping up the kerb, puking in the gutter, dropping his key, scrambling on the floor, retching a little, getting up, opening the door, neglecting to lock it behind him, tripping over his own feet, discarding his boots, tripping up the stairs.
They seem tiny, just little things, but he plans them meticulously. Every action, part of his routine. Every day, the same, except for those little slips.
And that's why he hates it when he doesn't follow the routine.