It's a combination of guilt and grief that color your world as you press your hands against the shower wall, the water cleaning your skin, washing away the blood you imagine still stains you, but doing very little to alleviate anything that's going on deep inside your mind. It's only the fact that your hands are braced against something so solid as the shower wall that you can keep yourself from shaking, though every muscle is pulled tight, tense, leaving you as strung tight as a piano wire.
The water goes cold long before you pull yourself from the shower, and it's an effort to even get out of the tub, a struggle that you are too familiar with. The pain seeps in as soon as you start to move, radiating through your limbs, and it's all you can do to snag a towel from the pile, knot it around your waist, and make your way to the room. It's a process of locking the door, barring away the outside world, keeping out that which seems to hunt you down no matter what you do to try and make amends. The bed sinks beneath you as you sit, hands covering your face as you lean forward, a chill winding through you from the cool air from the central air blowing on your damp skin, but you can't make the effort needed to cover yourself, to do anything but sit there. Your torn between giving up, turning yourself in, taking whatever punishment the world seems necessary, but there's ta very selfish part of you that simply cannot do that. You've never been one to give up, to lay there and let the world do as it pleases. You're a fighter, and you've fought so hard in the past, but this? This seems impossible to struggle against. Impossible to overcome.
Your thoughts start to drift back to dark rooms, shadows that move, a hole in your body that you try to fill with something else, something else to make you whole again. And the minute those thoughts start to creep over you, you shout, lurch up to your feet with a body that doesn't want to obey you, and its only the warmth of the whiskey seeping through your system that quiets the wandering thoughts. Sinking back down onto the mattress, it's all you can do to not start sobbing. Out of grief, out of regret and guilt, out of a hatred for yourself that has become so overwhelming that you think about simply making it all stop.
But it turns out you're a coward, and you're giving up, letting the world roll over you and do as it pleases. The blankets are harsh against your skin as you crawl beneath them, the whiskey spilling over your lips as you pour the fire down, and you stare up at the ceiling, wishing for an end, and end to the pain, an end to the nightmare your life has become.