Their Christmas Candle
"For the spirit of Christmas fulfils the greatest hunger of mankind." - Loring A. Schuler
It's been days, he's sure. He craves the feeling more than anything and yet the forty minutes ago - the forty minutes that he's sure were really days ago - that the needle last pierced his skin is still too recent and he knows what the consequences could be if he gives in. Oh, he wants to give in. He doesn't even know what stops him, just that he should be stopped. So he does. He stops. But it's too late. He's already failed, given in, again. And he was being so good.
He's lying in a rather strange position on his bed when he regains enough awareness to realise it. He rolls off awkwardly. And lands hard. He's sure that should have been painful. The angle his arm is bent at cannot possibly be normal. Nevertheless, he stands. Still awkward. Always awkward.
He realises he's in the shower, unsure of how he managed to get here from the bed. Then he's on the hard tiled floor and the water raining down from above is too high, too cold. It pelts his sensitive skin, his back, his arms, his legs; with droplets tiny enough - insubstantial enough - that they shouldn't sting. They shouldn't but they do. He doesn't want to admit how far he's fallen. He's shivering, now in a corner of the shower. Looking up, the tiles seem to stem from where the naked, hyper-aware skin of his back meets their coolness; above, below, both sides. As though his pale skin is where these whiter than white tiles originate from. He wonders why their stark monotony seems to be missing something. No twinkle, no colour here. Just cold and white and stinging and awkwardness. He's quietly shivering in a corner of the world as he ignores the dull throbs of his arm and the tears on his cheeks that could have been the too-cold water from above. Could be, but aren't.
---
Things will look up soon, 'til then... sorry :) -- and just quietly, I love reviews :), let me know if I'm being a bit too mean (or depressing),
have fun x