Melatonin was bullshit and didn't work in the least. Roman had tried it ages ago. It's not like he didn't have internet access. He could google home insomnia remedies. Melatonin, 5-HTP, valerian, kava kava, blah blah blah. Lavender, Milk and honey, Sleepytime tea, bloo bloo bloo. None of it worked. Roman always laid awake for hours. It's not like he liked being stuck awake in bed. He definitely didn't like wasting his hard-earned money on sleep remedies that don't work. Kava kava was too damn expensive and it gave him stomach cramps and he was still mad at it. It's not like he wasn't trying. And he really was tired. His muscles were screaming for a break. He just wasn't sleepy.
Roman glanced at the clock. It was a little rough to read in the shadows cast by the night light, but it looked like it was closing in at 1 AM. Roman was so fucking bored, and sick of being tortured by his head with regrets and memories. He shot a glance at his desk. He could probably keep a journal next to his bed and not get in trouble. If he angled himself the right way he could hide that he was drawing or writing even if someone entered the bedroom through blanket piles. He had enough money to buy a journal, but he could just use one of his old school ones if there was room. His sketchbook would be way too obvious that it's not a dream journal or something.
He could use that by the nightlight or a little flashlight Roman had from an old home until midnight and try to sleep then. Roman hadn't fallen asleep before midnight- not counting naps induced by soul-wrenching emotional bullshit- in years. Roman could remember watching the clock with Remus even before his mom died. It's why they used to make up stories together. It would almost be like keeping the tradition alive. But it was already after midnight, and Roman was bored now. He tapped his fingers against the mattress and rolled over again. Roman wished he had a DS or something. Maybe one of those relaxing farming games one of his friends at his old school liked. That would be nice. The older one he could afford if he found a new job. He could ask them tomorrow if he was allowed to.
It still didn't solve right now, of course. But thinking about things he could be doing was better than thinking about all the things he'd fucked up recently. And there were lots. All those times he pissed off Patton. He ran away from Thomas multiple times. Talked back. Was rude. Stayed up late. Slept in. Said stupid shit. Made multiple scenes in public. They bought him things he didn't deserve. Not that he deserved any of this. He probably deserved a shitty home since he was a shitty kid. The Finley's were right to kick him back. He probably wasn't taking care of their kids well enough and doing a shit job of taking care of their house on top of being a general disappointment. They needed somebody better who could help them with their math homework and was more on task. The Sanders will see sense soon and kick him back, too. They all do. The Sanders deserve somebody nice and focused and impressive and gets good grades and stuff.
Not that he thought he could survive another… Jet situation. Literally. But there had to be a middle ground between the Sanders and the Halls. One where he didn't get guns pulled on him but also didn't have all these things he didn't deserve around him, reminding him of how much of a failure he was and that he was a piece of shit. And how much all of it Roman wasn't supposed to have. He didn't earn any of it. Roman wasn't supposed to be here. Roman's breath hitched, and he rolled over again. He felt really trapped and got up out of bed, starting to pace the room and trying to breathe. There was even space to pace in here. Holy fucking shit, he didn't deserve any of this. He wasn't supposed to be here.
Roman crossed his arms and rubbed them, his nails digging in, shuffling back and forth across the bedroom floor. He didn't feel safe. He didn't belong here. He wasn't supposed to be here. He had to get out of here. He couldn't leave though. Could he? Roman shook his head and violently ruffled his hair as he paced. He could try to hide, wait this out, wait till he felt better. But he couldn't sit still. He wanted to run. He wanted to run so badly. He didn't deserve to be here, and it hurt so bad. He felt like screaming as he yanked his hands through his hair again. He paced fasted and shook the hairs out from between his fingers before bracing his arms tight again.
He had to run. Running helped before, right? And everything was screaming at him that he should run, that he fucked up and he needed to get out of there. Roman choked on his closing throat and paused in the middle of the bedroom, looking around again. He felt trapped in this room. It was so easy to block the door. Second-story window. They could find him in the closet. He had to go. He had to go. He couldn't breathe in here. He had to run. Roman grabbed the door keys off the dresser and hurried down the stairs. He had to go. He had to leave. Roman locked the front door behind him and bolted across the lawn and down the street. He didn't know or care where he was going, he just knew he had to run. He had to get out of there and he had to run.
Roman panted as he bolted farther away, his vision blurring slightly down the dark streets. He dodged the street lights and kept his distance from fences, just like they taught him. It was easy. It was the only easy thing. He was pushing his luck not wearing all black, but he grew out of all that stuff. And he had to run. He didn't have time to change. He had to go. He needed to keep going. Running made sense. Running was right. It hurt to breathe, but he could breathe out here, and he wasn't trapped anymore. Roman kept running. His bare feet pounded, his lungs burned raw, and he kept running. Roman kept running until he couldn't keep going anymore.
Roman's throat burned and the sharp night air cut into him as he sprinted down the streets. Hide. He had to hide. He couldn't keep going right now. He had to hide and take a break. He must have been far enough to be safe. He just needed somewhere easy to escape, to hide. Roman vaguely recognized the high school and headed that way, jumping the chain-link fence and headed over to the unlit bleachers. It would be dark and there would be crevices, but he could easily bolt from it if he had to. He sped towards them and ducked under the support bars, skidding to a stop and tucking himself under a low row where it was the darkest. Roman could barely make out his hand in front of his face. Hidden. Safe. He curled into a ball, and broke down quietly, sobbing into his pajama pants instantaneously.
—
"Hey, what are you doing under there?" A voice called loudly and shook Roman awake. He looked up blearily from his legs and looked around for the source of the voice. "Come out, right now!" It shouted. Roman's breath hitched from the loud noise waking him up. He didn't realize he had fallen asleep. He was crying for what felt like hours. Roman exhaled and crawled to his feet, holding his hands up as he ducked his way out from under the bleachers. "I asked you what you were doing here," The police officer coming into view in the pale morning light reiterated.
"I, uh, I don't know," Roman admitted quietly, still holding his hands up and stopping under the bleachers with enough height to stand but keeping a safe distance from the officer.
"Louder," He demanded.
"I just ended up here! I don't know!" Roman said, louder and freaking out a bit. "I'm sorry!" The officer spoke quietly into his walkie.
"Show me your ID," He ordered Roman.
"I don't have any," Roman replied quickly, his heart pounding and his hands starting to shake in the air.
"How old are you, son?" He asked, pointing a blindingly bright flashlight into Roman's face. Roman squinted his eyes and recoiled from the light, but kept his hands in the air.
"15. Am I f-free to go?" Roman stammered out. Jet taught him this stuff. He knew what to do. It didn't make it any less terrifying.
"No, you are not. Turn out your pockets," The officer demanded.
"I do not consent to a search," Roman said as passively as he could manage, but his voice was shaking along with the rest of him. It hurt to from exhaustion hold up his arms like this, but just seeing the officer was enough to send him straight back into panic mode.
"Are you hiding something, boy?" The police officer asked.
"No," Roman croaked. He had nothing worth hiding. He just couldn't be searched. He couldn't. Even carrying nothing he couldn't be searched. Roman's heart pounded painfully in his throat while the officer stared him down.
"Step out from under the bleachers, now," The officer said, stepping back. Roman complied, ducking under the support bar and stopping with his hands still in the air right as he walked out. The officer stepped forward and patted Roman down. Roman swallowed heavily and stayed still.
"What are these?" The officer asked, tapping on the lump in Roman's pajama pants pocket.
"H-house keys, sir. Am I free t'go now?" Roman supplied, unable to shake the weakness and fear from his voice. His feet kind of burned and stung, but he couldn't look down to check at them. He was too frightened of the cop to look away from him.
"No, you have violated curfew laws," The police officer said, stepping back.
"The sun is up, s-sir, curfew is lifted at 5 AM. I h-have not," Roman refuted him shakily.
"How do you know so much about curfew law, boy?" He asked, shining that bright-ass flashlight right in his face again. It strained the hell out of his eyes and his eyebrows were so furrowed they hurt. He could almost feel every hair.
"It's every citizen's duty to know the local laws," Roman parroted, swallowing heavily. It was easier when he had a script. His arms felt like bricks and they were so hard to hold up. It was so hard to breathe. It was so hard to keep standing.
"That it is, boy. But you're still trespassing on school property," The police officer said intensely. Roman recoiled slightly and coughed, trying to open back up his throat.
"Campus is open to students as soon as administration gets here. There are cars in the lot," Roman supplied, glancing past the officer to the parking lot. He could do this, right? It had to be almost over. It had to be. He couldn't take this much longer.
"You seem to know a lot for somebody who doesn't know why they're here," The officer said suspiciously.
"I was out for a run and wasn't paying a-attention to where I was going. I was taking a b-break under the bleachers. Am I free to g-go?" Roman asked again after trying to explain himself. And it was the truth, as difficult as it was to spit out.
"Do you have an ID for this school as a supposed student?" The officer asked, raising an eyebrow.
"I didn't bring my w-wallet for a r-run," Roman replied. He actually didn't have an ID yet, but he didn't need to incriminate himself any further. The officer was clearly grasping at straws, and Roman just wanted to get out of here. The officer stepped back and talked into his walkie again, leaving Roman to stand there silently. His arms drooped slightly, but he kept them up, powered purely by adrenaline at this point.
"What's your name, boy?" He asked after a few moments of talking to the quiet walkie strapped to him. Roman was close enough to hear the garbled noises coming from it, but his heart was pounding so loudly in his ears he couldn't make anything out.
"Roman Reinhart," Roman responded, shaking. This couldn't be good. Roman swallowed thickly again and tried to stop shaking so obviously. He wasn't sure it was actually possible with all the adrenaline pumping through him. He'd probably be shaking for days. If he had eaten or drank anything in the past 10 hours he would have thrown up already. The officer talked more into his walkie. Roman's throat tightened even worse as he waited patiently for the cop's permission to leave. He just wanted to run. He wanted to run so badly, even worse than before.
"Your parents are looking for you. Seems you didn't tell 'em you went out for a run, huh?" The police officer said angrily and put away his flashlight. Holy fucking shit. They were awake? It was too early for them to be awake, right? Oh god, oh god, oh god- "You're coming with me to the station so they can pick you up," The officer demanded. No! No, No!
"I can walk home sir, it's only a few blocks away," Roman objected, feeling like his knees were about to give out. He could feel the cold sweat dampening his back and he just couldn't breathe deep enough.
"That's not how this is playing out, boy, follow me," The officer ordered harshly and Roman's head swam and there were spots in his eyes. No, no, he can't go with the cops. He can't go with the cops. He'd be in so much trouble. It was the most important rule. He needed to run. He can't move, his legs won't work. Why won't they work? Why couldn't he feel his legs? Roman barely registered as his vision dropped to the ground and he gasped for air. He can't go, he can't, he needs to run, he's got to get out of here go go go go go- Roman's vision faded and he watched a pair of work boots come up to him. He couldn't hear anything other than the screaming objections in his own head. Things went black.
—
Roman's eyes opened, and the room spun. He heaved for a moment and tried to blink some sense into himself. He wasn't sure what was going on or why everything was so distant. His ears were ringing, and his vision was completely blurred. Something felt hard underneath him. Did he fall asleep in the closet again? He rubbed his eyes to try to get his vision back. Everything was still blurry. He looked around and was blinded by fluorescent lights and saw men in uniforms and his breath immediately hitched. He was arrested. He was caught. Jet was going to kill him if his foster parents didn't first. He was going to go to jail. He was going to get way worse in jail than the Halls would do to him. This couldn't be happening. Roman choked and gasped in panic.
"Holy shit, holy fucking shit, no no no-" Roman started to ramble objections incoherently and curled into himself. An officer turned to look at him on the floor and Roman grasped his own head tightly in a panic, not sure what to do. He had to get out of here. He was already caught! They already knew! He had to go. He was trapped in here! Roman's heart pounded like it was trying to explode. No, no, no no-
"No, No!" Roman screamed and balled into himself as tight as he could and tried to breathe, he couldn't breathe, he couldn't breathe, he was going to die, this was it, he was going to die, thank god, he couldn't do this anymore, he couldn't, he couldn't breathe. His blood was on fire. His heart was pounding violently, thudding everywhere he had veins. He was caught, he could feel his blood running, everything hurt so much. The police had him. He couldn't breathe. Roman's throat closed in on itself and he gasped for air and his lungs and eyes burned like there was wasp venom in them and it was all over. He was so tired. He couldn't take it anymore. He squeezed himself as tight as his burning limbs would let him as his vision crossed and things went black again. Finally.
—
Fucking shit, everything hurt so bad. Damnit, he wasn't supposed to get hit by the party bus, but he fucking was. There was an odd beeping. Does hell have incessant beeping? That seems pretty tame. It was really annoying though. It'd probably wear on him pretty quick with how loud it was. Roman groaned and tried to open his eyes, but it was just so fucking bright. Everything glowed a burning orange-red, even behind his closed eyelids. This was definitely hell. Huh. The Miller's were right. If he saw Jack Miller here, he'd still fucking clock him, though. He'd show them fucking devil child. Maybe he could come back as an actual demon and haunt their asses for trying to 'save' him. Roman tried to raise his arm to cover his eyes, but it was so heavy that it took some genuine effort. He covered his eyes, but it was just still so bright. How was everything so bright? An arm should be thick enough. What was in his arm? It was cold.
"Roman?" A hopeful voice asked. What the fuck? That can't be right. This was hell. What's with the nice in hell? "Roman, are you awake?" A kind voice asked, and there was a loud shuffling noise. God, they were too loud. Was he being punished by somebody who pretended to be nice? Because that's really sick, Satan. No wonder god banished him. Roman tried to hide from the light again but there was no angle his arm could take to save him, especially with that thing in it. And that beeping! Why was it so loud?
"Brightness and beeping are really fucking weird torture methods, dude," Roman groaned, feeling his head pound from his own words. "The pain makes sense, but I was told there'd be boiling blood and shit," Roman grumbled.
"Roman, what are you talking about?" The kind voice asked, sounding confused. That was clearly a trap. Devils don't act nice or confused unless they were fooling someone.
"Nuh-uh, you're not tricking me into no bullshit, satan," Roman grumbled, slowly curling his finger to flip him off.
"Hello, good to see you awake!" Another voice chirped, and it was so loud Roman flinched and god that hurt worse than before. Holy shit.
"Go away, loud she-demon," Roman grunted and slowly flipped off in the noise's direction with his other hand.
"Does he normally act like that?" She asked, sounding concerned.
"No, he's pretty quiet and polite, I think, other than a bit of attitude," The kind guy said along with more loud shuffling. Ugh!
"Listen, the beeping is plenty of torture, stop with the loudness already," Roman hissed. The beeping really was wearing on him. He could swear he could feel it in his teeth. Props to lead torture designer or whatever. He regretted ever questioning the beeping's validity as a torture method.
"I'm going to check your blood pressure," She said. That's a fucking weird thing to do.
"Fuck off already," Roman muttered. She lifted his arm, and he wasn't quite capable of doing much other than mildly failing, and she wrapped something around his upper arm.
"Sit still, Mr. Reinhart," She said, holding his arm in place. Roman stopped fighting it. He was too damn tired. He was here forever anyway. The world had ended and all that, no coming back from hell.
"Hey, hell's at the end of eternity, right? I don't remember what I was running for Jet. He didn't, like, get fucked over, did he?" Roman asked weakly. He hoped Jet was okay. If Roman was running something valuable, it would have been a colossal fucking problem for him.
"Do you think this is hell, Mr. Reinhart?" The voice asked as a ton of pressure built up on his upper arm. It pinched and stung.
"Yeah, it's not like I'd go to heaven, the shit I've done," Roman chuckled slightly, trying to laugh off his guilt, but there was a sharp pain on his ribs. "Son of a bitch," He hissed and tried to move to put his free arm over the spot, but even a little more light filtering through his eyelids burned and he couldn't take it.
"Do you think you're dead, Roman?" The kind-sounding guy asked. What was with this? Was the confusion part of the torture? Was the nice tone? Devils are supposed to know about you and your sins.
"Thank god. Or whatever you're supposed to say here. No, fuck it, thank him. My foster parents would have fucking killed me for getting arrested in a much more painful method than my heart failing. I got my ass beat for taking an apple without asking, they'd fuck me up! And prison? I'm glad I was saved from all of that," Roman grunted. There was a pause as the pressure on his arm released.
"Roman, how old do you think you are?" The kind voice asked, sounding perplexed.
"13. Duh. They always say live fast and die young," Roman said, trying to throw up the horns but giving up partway through.
"The police officers said he had a panic attack and passed out just before I got there," The guy said.
"Man, how is anybody supposed to react? It's a first-degree felony. They would have tried me as an adult, dude," Roman grunted.
"What is a first-degree felony?" The guy asked.
"What am I, a narc?" Roman scoffed. The dude didn't answer about Jet. Why should Roman say anything?
"His blood pressure is elevated, but within an acceptable range, and he shouldn't be dehydrated anymore. Does Roman suffer from mental health issues you didn't mention on intake?" The lady asked.
"Not that we were told. We'd only had Roman for 6 days," The guy sounded nervous. "He… has implied concerning things, though,"
"Let me go get the doctor, Mr. Sanders," The lady said.
"Boo, no doctor torture! What kind of second-rate horror B-Movie is this? Where's the fuckin' scorpions and shit?" Roman jeered.
"Roman, do you know who I am?" The guy asked carefully.
"Satan," Roman said resolutely. "And I'm not opening my eyes to look at your devil dick or whatever. I'm a fucking minor, you filthy pervert," Roman stuck out his tongue. Hell was weird.