AN: First SP story in forever, oi. First of all, I apologize for what I loosely call a 'story'. This abstract stuff is apparently what happens anytime I listen to "Pyramid Song" by Radiohead. This is born of way too much crap going on right now and if anyone here is reading "But Sons Do It Better" let me assure you it has not been forgotten. I'm hoping to get the next chapter out soon, writer's block + school and I were battling for a while, but I think they're both temporarily under control at least.

Disclaimer: I don't own SP. Also, I apologize for how bad this probably is. Thanks for looking at it though!


He was floating...sinking...swimming...drowning...

Would he ever come up for air?

A touch on his shoulder...the hand that kept pushing him under.

"I'm leaving"..."You'll be back"..."Don't touch me"..."I mean it this time"..."Stay away"..."Wait, I'm sorry, I didn't mean it"..."Just a friend"..."I hate you"..."Going behind my back"..."I love you"..."Fine then, don't ever come back"..."Where do you think you're going"...

When had his skin become so cold?

"I'm going out"

No acknowledgment. No care.

"Are you going to ask when I'm coming back"

Did it really matter? No. It didn't.

"Why"

Loathing, disgust.

"..."

No answers, closing doors.

Upstairs. Turn on the tub water. Simple instructions: shed clothes, lie down. Close eyes.

If it was a pool he could spread his arms and legs and float on the surface. He wishes it was a pool.

A new smell tinges the air. Stale, harsh, burning. Cigarettes. The window must be open from this morning, from his solitary shower.

So he hasn't left. He's just outside in the backyard, choking down cancer sticks like candy cigarettes.

Why does he keep lying? Why does he always lie?

Why doesn't he stop him?

Easy. Doesn't matter.

Open eyes. Stare at the ceiling overhead. Cobwebs. A touch of mold growing where tile meets wall. Disgusting.

He won't say he was just outside. Will he tell him he knew? No. He won't.

A new feeling rising from his stomach, tangled in his throat. Bitterness.

Water's cold now. Cold like his skin. Cold like his skin.

Damn it.

Let the water drain. Stay in the tub. Bare skin on cold porcelain.

Limbs fall askew over the side of the tub. He stares up the ceiling, naked, vulnerable. He's left the door open.

A distant sounding curse of his name. The slam of a door. Feet up the stairs.

He walks past. They don't bother looking at each other. They should. They know they should. They don't.

Caring has become exhausting.

They just don't care anymore.

There's another spot of mold growing on the wall.

Disgusting.


Yeah, sorry for that. But thank you for reading it anyway!