Jeroen - 2x05
"May I go to the toilet?"
The "Yes" barely registered before he was scrambling out of the classroom and into the deserted hallway, heart hammering in his throat, blood rushing in his ears. Zeno's mocking laughter followed him, a haunting presence clinging to him like wet mud on a rainy day. He needed to get away - space - to be alone before he did something stupid where everyone could see. Like throwing up his meager breakfast. Like crying.
The white of the bathroom tiles was hurting his eyes as he blindly fumbled his way into one of the cubicles. The lock clicked, and his stomach heaved, finally giving up the fight and rebelling against the harsh treatment of heaps of cola and coffee. That- coupled with too little sleep and barely any food. Jeroen was a mess. He didn't need a mirror to know. "Heh," he chuckled weakly to himself, but it wasn't even funny. It was just his absurd reality. And his body protested vehemently, making his state abundantly clear. He curled forward, crumpling onto the dirty floor, bile bitter and sharp, face wet with the force of it.
After it was over, Jeroen didn't know how long he sat huddled in the cubicle, a white-knuckled grip as he pressed his hands together. It was long enough that the buzzer announced the end of the lesson, muffled and muted. It was long enough that Appie came waltzing into his little sanctuary, harshly shattering his peace and bringing with him Jeroen's jacket and bag and a wave of concern.
("Jeroen? Is everything alright?")
Despite his friend's needling, Jeroen remained rooted in place, his nails digging into the flesh of his palm, hoping the pain could help relieve some of the pressure in his chest. It didn't, of course. Jeroen swallowed thickly, forcing away something painful - something bitter, not unlike the bile at the back of his throat. These were his problems. No one needed to know. There was no need for stuff like concern. It's what he repeated to himself, a mantra echoing in his mind. It took a long while before he could gather all the fragmented pieces of himself - each one jagged and sharp, but enough to peel away from the toilet and stumble back into the hallway. His jacket and bag were heavy in his arms as he dragged himself home and into his bed.
During dinner, Jeroen barely managed to eat anything, avoiding his friend's concerned gaze at all costs. The worry emitted from across the table ached like the heavy anxiety swirling in his gut. Instead, he focused on the leafy soup that made his stomach want to turn itself inside out. He stirred in it with his spoon till it was cold and disgusting - till Trudie took it away with a heavy sigh.
He went to bed early that night, feeling queasy and feverish, fingers numb and full of pins and needles, a jittery heat surging through his veins that reminded him too much of the burn of fire.
That night, Jeroen dreamed again. And even in his nightmares, the flames continued to lick at the edge of his consciousness. There was no escape, after all.
Rewatching the show has sparked my inspiration to write again. Perhaps this will be just a collection of short drabbles.