Alone he was in bed, the sun coming through the window. Another day.
He had drunk through the rest of the gin and smoked the rest of his cigarettes. (And he still wanted more)
He needed to go to Pierre's and get more (Pierre didn't have what he preferred anyways).
He needed to go to Zuzu city and see his mom (His mom didn't want to see him).
He needed to work on his new goddamn book (What, all six pages?).
Fingers ran through his long hair, it was greasy and felt disgusting, he hadn't been outside in days.
Harvey had called him, he'd said he was having a breakthrough on his book and wanted to work on it.
Lie. It was a lie.
Part of him felt guilt in that he'd lied to Harvey, to all of the town with a smile and that forced laughter.
But part of him was grateful.
He didn't have the energy to be around anyone, Much less a doctor who gave him pitying glances every time he took his pants off.
Elliott sat up and traced a finger over the scars, like tiny ladders walking their way up his thighs.
They had never spoken of the marks on Harvey or of the marks on Elliott.
But he knew that conversation would come eventually.
And what would he say?
Would he speak of the terrors that haunted him?
How his anxiety was always bubbling, hot and red under the surface?
Would he cry about how his voice used to catch in his throat with friends from the city?
Honestly, he wasn't sure.
He wasn't sure what would come out if anything at all.
Even more exhausted than before, he laid back down and turned to face the wall; pulling the heavy down comforter to his chin.
Sleep, he needed to sleep.
He'd be okay in the morning.
He was always okay in the morning.