He shouldn't have gotten out of bed this morning. It wasn't his first bad idea, and it certainly won't be his last.
Something had told him that he was on his last legs, if his game wasn't over yet, it certainly will be soon because he doesn't know if he can hang on anymore. His experiment is painfully drawing to a close. He's pushed his body too far.
What happens next?
It is the only coherent thought buzzing through his head these days. His train of thought seems to be locked in an internal battle of won't give up and can't give up. He runs on autopilot, he looks like a skeleton. He's taken it too far. This is too much.
It's not a surprise when he collapses, blood roaring in his ears and a gravitational pull tugging him to the ground, folding him up and stealing away his consciousness and not giving him enough time to think of anything at all.
The throbbing reverberates up his spine and ricochets insides his skull, battering his insides and turning everything to liquid. The sharp prickles jab behind his eyelids and everywhere in between. His mouth becomes dry and the air is thick as he gasps, stumbling as a haze overcomes his vision. He staggers a bit before his legs crumble beneath him.
His world becomes a blur of vertigo and sashaying colors that he traces with his eyes as he drops to the ground like a dead weight. He watches them swim across his vision as his eyelids unwillingly become warm and droop close. He should have known that this was coming. It was only a matter of time.
His mind doesn't recognize anything through the fog of numbness, not the pain that should be registering when his head hits the concrete nor the thin dribble of blood that was leaking into his eyes. The concrete is warm under his palms as he takes shallow breathes, his body rocking with shudders as he tries to harness his motor skills and pick himself up off the ground.
Hunger has become a stain in which he was, for wherever he roamed, hunger was his constant shadow. It stole away his nights and flawed his days with misery. It was the nausea bubbling and tying knots in his stomach as his silent please go unheard.
He knows he needs help; a bitter voice in his subconscious berates his peers and family for not reaching out to help him. Can't they see how far out of his control this has grown? Don't they care? He needs them now; can't they see what is happening to him?
His brittle, chipped nails serve witness as he gnaws on their roots tirelessly. His fatigued, bony body is exhausted and broken. He is heartless now, too far gone to care, to feel petty emotions like pain and rage and happiness…. No, now all there is is hunger. That is everything these days. There is nothing left; he is an empty shell much too far-gone for seemingly important things like contentment and health.
He misses a time when family and health was important to him. He wonders when they stopped becoming important and became words, names without faces. People he used to care about that are not the same faceless beings on the other side of his stoic wall. He wonders when he lost himself, when he lost control of his game.
He wonders who will put a stop to this, because all they seem to do is watch, but he can't feel anything now, and he wonders if he ever will. He's starting to forget who he was, why he stood so tall in the first place.
His heart is interwoven in an internal battle that rages inside, tearing him to pieces and sewing him up into a patchwork masterpiece tearing at the seams. He can't break free of what he subjected to his self, a selfish goal that stole away who he was in the face of what he could be.
And as a sense of weightlessness overtakes him, he wonders if this is what it feels like to die, consciousness stuttering and stalling, a crippling agony paralyzing his soul. Shadows loom over and he slips through the cracks of consciousness, briefly, foolishly hoping to wake up and see that it was only a dream and nothing was real.
Hoping that he could go back to a time where his only problem was the flea and his anger, and things like eating disorders were something that didn't happen to people like him because he was supposed to be untouchable. Things that he heard about in health class and shrugged off because he was supposed to be better than that, he was supposed to be confident in whom he was and no amount of pressure would change that.
He was supposed to be indestructible, invincible, and what happened, where did it all go so wrong?
All his insecurities were fleshed out and struggling in an intricate network that was his identity, trapped between two panes of his pitiful existence, those who would never understand and his own weakness that kept them oblivious.
He falls apart as a simple experiment runs his life and eats away at trivial things like pride and hope, things that used to have a meaning but now he thinks it doesn't matter. He doesn't need those attributes, they've never solved anything.
He's heartless now, that's all he can remember, that's all there ever will be. He doesn't want to wake up to hunger anymore.
There is nothing of him left, he is dead inside and he's forgotten how to feel, did he ever really know?
"Rise and shine Shizu-chan!"
Out of all the voices he had expected to hear, this was the last one. It grates against his ears and riles him, forgotten emotions stirring in the pit of his stomach, annoyance and anger. He is surprised that he can still label them. Out of all the people to find him, it had to be this one?
Was this karma sick way getting back at him for something evil he might have done in a past life? It wasn't as if he hadn't enough on his plate already, why must fate strike with vengeance when all he knows is that he needs a break?
He considers not opening his eyes and waiting until the damn flea got bored and left, but it seemed this wasn't going to be easy as a bony finger starts to dig into his ribcage, prodding him closer to the edge of awareness.
"Ne, wake up!" Izaya whines, Shizuo stubbornly ignores it, even as it persists dangerously close to his ear, invading his personal space.
He remembers a time when he might have wanted to reach up and slap away the face so close to his own, but the urge is non-existent as he is heartless now. He can't seem to find the energy to care anymore, much less do anything about it. He remembers a time when breathing the same air as the flea above him would repulse him; the mere mention of his name in passing was enough to set him off in a flurry of stop signs and anger.
He remembers a time when Izaya's name was taboo, and anyone who dared speak of it was asking for Shizuo's rage to put them in their place, or the hospital. Most likely both. It seemed foolish how such things had such an effect on him, and where his ever-present anger was now, mystifies him.
He has to remind himself to care, that these things were normal to feel, and please feel something please.
There are icy fingers on his nose, cutting of his oxygen. He knows that this should be uncomfortable, but all he really thinks is that if he does nothing about it, who will let up first? Who will give up? Would he really suffocate? If Izaya wanted him dead than he could have killed him ten time over by now.
He doesn't want to die, per say, but he doesn't want to go one living with his aching hunger in his gut. He was suspended in an area, not peace, but still unfeeling. It made no difference to him, as long as it banished his pain he had no trouble with never waking up again.
He wondered when he stopped caring.
Inwardly he was blackened, charred remains of a raging inferno of anger that has died out without the blaze of glory. Faded and dead and leaving nothing but change in its wake. Nothing at all.
His face contorts with a scowl as his arm sluggishly swipes the hand away; he lets it drop on his emaciated ribcage, feeling his bumpy ribs under his fingers, protected by a thin veil of skin. He can feel his ribs protrude above his shrunken stomach, rising and falling slowly and hitched by his uneven breathing.
He peels his eyelids open lethargically, only to allow them to slide close as they were assaulted by a piercing white light. He squints as his face screws into mild irritation and pique, his mouth curling into a snarl as Izaya spoke up again.
"That's better. Now, I'm glad I found you, you see…." Izaya's tone never lost its playfulness, albeit it softened and darkened as he continued, though the change was so natural and effortless that Shizuo was almost afraid that he had imagined it. "I'm afraid we have much to discuss."
He spoke in a leisurely manner, as if this were a common occurrence. Bracing himself, Shizuo prepared to sit up and get a better view of the flea crouched before him. His vision was still swimming and his arms were quaking under his weight, but despite all of that, he almost made it on sheer will alone.
Almost, for at that moment his haze of disorientation cleared and all of his pain and hunger hit him at full force. He gave a muted gasp as his arms buckled underneath him and he fell back towards that ground, he trembled in his agony, groaning under his breath, wanting to curl into his self and wish it all away.
Wave after wave fell upon him and he blanched, attempting to take full breathes, each quick breath catching in his throat. His stomach felt like it was going to cave in on itself, and his quaking fingers sloppily clutched the grass.
Izaya hummed in amused at his attempt, Shizuo only scowled. He remembers when things like this used to annoy him, but those emotions are only fondly remembered thoughts because he's heartless now and doesn't care for anything anymore.
He loosens his grip on the grass. "You moved me?"
His memories are fuzzy, but he can remember hitting the asphalt, he hesitantly reaches up to confirm his suspicions. He can feel the thin stream of blood on his face, matting his hair from an unseen wound and trickling down the side of his face. He lowers his hand and stares at it through half lidded eyes with indifference; he shifts his gaze to Izaya as he speaks again.
"Well as much as I'd love to leave you bleeding on the pavement, I'm afraid this encounter is overdue. " The flea narrowed his eyes. "Wouldn't you agree? I mean, you hardly speak to anyone these days."
While it was the truth, Shizuo hadn't stopped to consider it. If his few friends had noticed, then they didn't confront him about it. They never showed any concern that they might have, or Shizuo just might be too thick and narrow-minded to see it. It was most likely the latter.
"You were surprisingly light." Izaya went on, "I dragged you here all by myself."
Shizuo remembered a time when a civilized conversation such as this was unheard of. He remembered a time when the thought of Izaya dragging him anywhere was degrading and humiliating and unheard of. He remembered a time when he might have cared about things like this, but times like those are faint and far away and he can't remember why he cared so much.
Izaya's tone is condescending and he sounds proud of his work, but Shizuo can hear it falter when he remains silent. Something tells him that this should make him happy, but he can't remember why because he's heartless now and doesn't care for anything anymore.
"Can I help you?" He grounds out.
Izaya blinked and seemed to consider the question. He mulled it over in his head before answering. "Yes. You can start eating again and react the way you're supposed to. That would help me." He nods, as if affirming a fact. "Yes, that will help excite my boring life."
He raised an eyebrow.
"I know!" Izaya's smirk grew, "I was surprised to! I never would have pegged you as an anorexic."
He considers telling Izaya that he's heartless now and doesn't feel emotions like surprise or anything at all, so it's no use trying to connect to him like he thinks he understands. But then he realizes that's exactly it- Izaya doesn't understand, never has and never will and that's part of the reason he's supposed to hate him so much. He used to be able to summon his anger at a moment's notice but now he's devoid of everything because this hunger has stolen it all away.
This hunger has taken everything, he is nothing now. It's taken everything he had, everything he's thought he had all this time. It's eating away at him like a sleeping cancer and now he's nothing but a walking corpse with nothing left but his name and he's not sure if he even has that anymore. He's nothing like who he was months ago. He's a changed man.
"Get out of here." He growls, trying to summon a shred of threat of malice to seem intimidating, but he's not fooling anyone, certainly not himself.
Izaya ignored him. "And what were you expecting to happen? Did you want someone to care? Attention? Is this your pathetic attempt at a silent cry for help?"
"No…" he tries, but he can't help but think about it. If there was ever a time, a back when he had emotions and a mind that could think for itself instead of running on auto-pilot, that he would have wanted to get rid of his strength and anger that caused nothing but destruction and pain…
Then this has certainly helped his cause, for now he was hollow and heartless and can't seem to find the energy to care for anything anymore, much less be angry about it. He supposed that's just what it was, this hunger, eating him alive and taking it all so he finds that he doesn't care anymore. He doesn't care about friends or grades or family or anything else that used to have a meaning.
He doesn't care about what people think or who might care or if anyone cares at all. He doesn't care about what he looks like or what he feels because he's heartless now and doesn't care for anything anymore. He doesn't care who might want to help him or who might notice and-
That's the most selfish thing you could do.
That's what it seemed, that he was only in it for himself, this experiment has taken all of him and ripped him from reality and stole him- the real him, the one that wants to be remembered.
A sudden blaze of hate erupts within him, flooding through his veins and making him feel alive oh, how he's missed it. He speaks through gritted teeth, no longer caring that it was Izaya he was speaking to, just as long as someone would finally listen, listen and hear that he doesn't want this but what can he do?
"They" he hisses, and his vehemently colored voice surprises even him, "They don't care, never did, not about me, and I don't care for anything anymore. They don't care what happens to me, and they don't need to, I'm in this alone Izaya, it's always been this way."
He glares and it's violent and suddenly he wants to kill something. "How could they be so blind?" He snarls, "How could they let this happen to me? How could they let it go so far without doing something?"
He grits his teeth, wanting to push and pull and break so badly that his shoulders are trembling and he can't hold it- can't contain this rage, until he does something that surprises himself and his audience, he breathes. Deeply, in and out until his hunched shoulders are loose and he lets go of it, all of it. His eyes are blank and he's heartless once more, Old Shizuo has gone back into hiding.
"No, I suppose I don't deserve their concern. I've always been a burden." He shifts his apathetic gaze to Izaya. "I don't expect you to listen, I don't even know why you're here-"
"I think I know," Izaya interrupts, devilish mahogany eyes narrowing and a twisted smirk on his lips. "I think you're just so relieved to finally get an offer for help, from anyone, you don't even care that it's me. And you're so, so," He fishes around for a word.
"Overwhelmed, by the fact that someone's here to listen, that you don't know what to do. I think you're frustrated, Shizu-chan, at yourself for letting it go so far, not being strong enough to stop it, at your family, because their supposed to help you and prevent you from getting to this state, and at your friends, for not interfering when they should know that something is wrong and still they do nothing."
He nods, satisfied with his words. "Am I right?"
Shizuo gets the notion that Izaya already knows that without a doubt, he's right, and there's nothing either of them can say to change that. Shizuo wonders when he became so easy to read, so easy to understand inside and out when he thought his motives were complex and mysterious.
He doesn't know how to feel- relieved, as Izaya said, because someone finally understands, and- and- he doesn't know, because then again, that person is then flea.
"I think," he murmurs through his wall of apathy, "I think that's the smartest thing I've ever heard you say."
He doesn't give a clear answer, they both don't need one, they both already know. Looking back, that simple statement was an answer all by itself. A silent Yes, thank you.
Izaya only smiles.