InsaneJournal

Who: Ernie and Theodore
What: Sleepwalking
Where: Between Diagon Alley and Finnigan's
When: Sunday, late
Status: Closed / In progress



Theodore usually sat out of the way during Battlescars, self-conscious that his being there might trigger other people, that the consequences of the things his father had done would find a (justifiable) target on himself. Nothing had been said outright at the last meeting, no one had mentioned even his father's name, but something about what had happened left him feeling guilty and uneasy. He wasn't long out of another stay at the Janus Thickey ward, where he'd started off being worried that he'd go the same way as the intelligent rats had but had been shored up by therapy and medication and left feeling a little less desperate but equally still a little ill.

He was living on savings but still managing to pay his rent, which made his landlord's visit an awkward one. His rent was going up and there was no way that he was going to be able to afford it on his own. The room had a separate bedroom and small living area with a couch, so he figured that he'd be able to rent his bedroom out and sleep on the couch, splitting the rent and maybe being able to afford it then. He went to bed early, hoping to stop his budding headache before it got started.

The night wasn't done with him though, even if his body wanted to sleep. He roused from bed gracelessly, shuffled to the door and rebounded off the doorframe before unlocking and wandering out of it and down the stairs, managing not to fall down them which didn't sound difficult if you didn't take into account the fact that he was still asleep. He ambled out and down the road dressed in his pajamas - which were luckily jogging bottoms and a hoodie - but sadly shoeless. His feet shuffling over the pavement frayed and tore as he moved, changing his shuffling into stumbles. He seemed distressed, shivering and mumbling and looking hunted but also looking drunk, which is why the few people on the late night streets who weren't drunk themselves didn't pay him any attention.

He stumbled and tripped and landed heavily on his knees, and even that didn't wake him up. He didn't stand up again though, something in his dreams recalling a position like this and making him follow through. He crawled now, hands and knees down the street, the rough surface grating his palms and the tops of his feet and shredding through his jogging bottoms to his knees, shredding them too. He left bloody smears behind him as he crawled, crying and begging in Russian for mercy.