You'll find me dancing all alone to the sound of an enemy's song. -Part II; Paramore
At the state he's in everything is sensory. He can feel the air as it barely breezes past his too-long hair. The tightness of the well-worn leather belt above his elbow. If he moves, it rubs across his skin in a demented caress, whispering, "You'll be alright."
The light from the florescent bathroom bulb makes him want to tear out his skin, but he needs skin. The light hums with every re-awakening. If nyctophobia wasn't something he had to deal with, he would turn off the pesky light source. The humming is beginning to cause him to untwist.
Lineoleum is is cold and refreshing against his back, like a sip of water on an unbearably hot day. He drags his fingers down his left arm, feeling the bumps from his veins as they raise to the call of their song. There's a particularly high one, as if it's flaunting its readiness, by his elbow.
He inserts the needle into the vial and watches it vacuum into the syringe. He caps it and puts the dilaudid on top of the counter. After a few taps to the barrel, he's ready to fly.
Nestled in the space between the linen cart and the wall, with the tub across from him, he settles back in. A stroke of a vein there, here, reminding himself that he loves his body and that is why he's doing this.
There's an all-too familiar prick, and then a heat begins to surge. Sunlight travels through his veins and by the time it makes it back to his heart, his head is in the clouds.
