Who? Ernest and open (or narrative) Where? The Roger's cottage When? Monday, late. What? Not coping. Rating? Moderate? Open? Yes
Ernest wasn't sure when he had last slept properly, and eating still wasn't much better. He'd had some crackers at Abi's insistence when Charlie was having a snack, but for the most part it wasn't happening. He'd been bad enough before the Reapers, but at least then he'd been able to focus the excess energy and thought into his novel. Now, he was all over the place. On one hand, wanting to run out into the open, gun blazing, to take them down- and he was deluded enough in that moment to think he could- on the other hand, he was so overwhelmed, so unfocused-
He'd been to the meeting, and agreed to play his part. He was ready- he thought he was ready- but then his rapid thoughts got the better of him, flicking between over-confidence and cripplingly low self-esteem, egomania and self-disgust. That evening, he had eventually fallen asleep with Abi and Charlie, but he'd woken within the hour in what could only be described as total panic. The trenches were on the island, filling to the brim with blood- the beach covered in human remains, picking his way through it- the sound of the reapers turning into shelling- the blood, everywhere- a horrible mix of current events with past traumas. His head was splitting as more thoughts just rushed to him in his waking moments.
He didn't want to wake Abi, and he definitely didn't want to wake Charlie, not with everything that was going on. And frankly, he hardly wanted her knowing what a fucking coward he could be at times. She didn't need to know what went on in that head of his, no one needed to know that. How could he even explain himself, when people were fighting, when he should be getting a grip on himself and doing something- there was the delusional thought that he should fix it somehow, that it was his personal responsibility.
So, pulling on some trousers he had slipped out of the room, feeling himself trembling away. He couldn't breathe. Jesus, he needed to breathe- his heart felt ready to burst out of his chest, the room spinning- he couldn't breathe- breathe- fuck- he moved to the kitchen, bracing himself against the counter for a moment, before opting to take a glass of water in an attempt to calm himself down. It seemed to be the kind of thing that people offered you when you were in a state. The glass was filled, but his trembling hands just weren't working, and the glass slipped from his numb fingers, shattering over the counter.
"Fuckfuckfuck-" he muttered to himself, stupidly gathering the shards together with his hands, leading, of course, to bleeding all over the place. And in his panic, he was much more concerned about not messing up the counter than the fact he was bleeding.