He doesn't want to move, not now not ever. He's so fatigued from lack of sleep that lying here seems the most logical thing to do. Staring at the ceiling in hope that the swirled patterns inspire sleep. No such luck and now the day's progressing and the heat's getting so bad that sweat is pooling beneath his lower back, causing his skin to stick to the sheets. He rises, relegates sleep to some lovely dream that he's not allowed to witness any more. The window's open and it's easier to breathe. Taking air in greedily, the eager gulps allow Shawn to feel less rough. He has to be sober and alert for the arena, can't have another strike against his character; already hated enough. Could really help his case by having some willpower. Should resist all those pills and beers and women throwing themselves at him every night.
He was supposed to meet the boys for lunch, looks at his watch and realises most people have lunch well before 2pm. His stomach seems taut with guilt, he can let anyone down but them. He wants to appease them, knows there's an aching thirst to prove he's not a total bastard residing somewhere deep inside. All he wants is to prove to them that he's worth having around, that under all the crap he can be a nice person. Still Shawn stands at the window, overlooking the horizon but not really seeing as his mind battles through the fog of memories from last night. Before he crashed on the bed alone he can remember a flicker of hurt. The kind that settles coiled in the pit of the gut as a result of some bitter nastiness, no doubt with him at the centre.
When he's high or drunk he's not a warm person, he's mean, he's awful. Drink, fight, sneer, sleep, do some drugs to make himself feel alive: it's a pattern he can't break. A cycle he's stuck in far too often. He blinks and the sky outside burns, the glow of the sun too bright for semi-rested eyes such as his. He tries to count the nights of well rested sleep, the ones where he went to bed at a reasonable hour for an ample amount of time; figures out it must be zero. It's a wonder he manages to perform at the level he does with the little rest he gets – knows the pills probably help him with that problem. Not for the first time, Shawn ignores the little voice in the back of his mind that attempts to scold him for his actions. He doesn't want a conscience, doesn't want it to figure into his life as it'll only result in him feeling worse than he already does. If he feels bad already then what's the point in listening to stuff that'll only make his life harder? A hearty sigh escapes and he knows his bravado is little more than a lie. Hunt tried to be his conscience last night, tried to make him put the pills away and drink less.
It was a rookie mistake, one Shawn thought Hunter wouldn't make so much any more. He wanted to be left to his own devices but no, he had to interfere, couldn't take "stay out of it" as an answer and so that was why the rudeness had to birth. The words "fuck you!" cut through the air and he was gone, freed by his own obnoxiousness. Stood at the bar nursing a double, relishing the sour taste of alcohol and letting it deaden the guilt he could feel fermenting. He wanted to cover his mouth and stop all the evil from spilling out, wanted to keep all his prick like comments to himself and tell Hunter he was a good friend that he was grateful for; but he didn't. So now he's ended up alone in the hotel room, stuck surveying the balcony with distaste, wishing they'd give it a fresh lick of paint so that it didn't look so shabby.
Sometimes he has this feeling that life's a car that he's driving and it's getting faster and faster until it's out of control, only he's too drunk to man the wheel and is just waiting for the inevitable crash into self destruction. He thinks he's probably half way off the road by now and the chance of resuming travel on the straight and narrow road is slight. Who cares anyway, it's not as if he'll have a line of people ready to fling roses as they lower his coffin into the ground. They'd not be sorry to see him go, and he wouldn't blame them one little bit, he's hurt far too many people to see that happen. Shawn knows he's probably ignored every call for redemption he'll ever get.
Still doesn't stop him from running on pure cockiness, has the high moments to go with the low – knows for a fact he's the jewel in Vince's company right now. Doesn't matter how many of the boys in the back think he's a fruit or hate him for being an asshole, he knows there's nobody in the company better than him. He's the one who sells out house shows and gets people to buy tickets. He also knows he'll get no credit when they swim against the tide WCW's creating but instead will get all the blame for those currently increasing times they sink in the ratings war.
It's why he feels so bad about turning on Hunter, even if it was his own fault for sticking his damn nose where it didn't belong; at the end of the day the clique is his family out here in the shark tank and he needs them. They're the only ones who take a genuine interest in his well-being, even when he begs them not to. Sometimes after he blows up at them he wants to tell them, for the record that he really does appreciate it, but it feels too raw to do that. It's too much like admitting everything he does is wrong and sometimes when he's totally strung out on drugs and eaten up by low self esteem he feels so vulnerable he could shatter like glass if he dares to accept that.
There's a rap on the door that disturbs his thoughts, opens it to find Hunter stood waiting, eyes wary as if he's waiting for him to explode again; Shawn wants desperately to tell him he's sorry and that Hunter was right he does need to shape up but the words stay stuck in his throat. Instead he hits him affectionately on the shoulder, lets his actions speak for him and waits for his buddy to help him live another day.