Re: [Reaction]
But even then - the exhaustion is like a tip of the scales that he doesn’t know how to arrange his feet on, exactly, so that he doesn’t fall headlong into something that he doesn’t recognize and to which he can’t really relate. Paint by numbers? Run of the mill? But then, it’s not always so much a choice as a revelation, in his mind.
He can be brave in theory. He’s not sure if, in the fleeting breath of that moment, there is a way to regather the slipshod purchase of his feet against tumbling pea gravel. He doubts it. But it's not so much about finding purchase against the landslide of his own mistakes.
Jamie hadn't ever had to tell him about the rhythmic flicker of the IV pump, dialed into a rate that kept pacing morphine and hope in equal measure. Fuck, the kid didn’t have to tell him about how his hopes and dreams had been shattered, yeah? Seven, realistically, had little concept of measured nights versus talking filler. He figured there'd been a majority of bullshit exchanged, between them. Not like he'd ever given Jamie a reason to be honest or vulnerable, to share this sort of shit with him.
He'd had his months in the hospital with Sawyer. Machines beeping. IVs dripping. It wasn't like he’d expected to win anyone over. He feels that empty, pendulum-swing of dread without having the answers.
The ceiling of his office, it is different from what he's remembering. Jagged points of plaster instead of tiles and brow raises. He feels like he drifts. Hungover. He’s used to passing out, but now wit feels like it’s faraway at the end of a cartoon train tunnel carved into the side of a mountain. He acknowledges the drilling-down of fear into his gut like it’s a pit and his marrow is oil but he knows it’s going to hurt. This is the summation of what he’s accomplished. He doesn’t have it in him, to crack wise with the nurse who takes pity on him. She doesn't care about him, she just pities him.
He doesn't know what it feels like, to be someone like Jamie, whom everybody automatically likes - and to feel subsequently stuck, like an insect in tar. Flailing, fumbling.
It's distant. He is unable to pretend that he has been disappointed by how shit has turned out. The bottle feels like it has started to vibrate, clenched between his thighs. When he comes out of it, eventually, with a sucking inhale like a drowning man, he’s the one wavering. He grips the neck of the bottle tight in his palm. Thumb over the mouth, because he doesn’t want to drink it - not exactly. Not yet. But it’ll also keep the contents from spilling so that he can drink them, when and if he wants, as he stretches out against the mattress onto his back. Springs creaking in protest and digging into his spine.
He has to shut his eyes. He feels like he has no more heres left to spare, yeah?