Quentin Coldwater (lostinbetween) wrote in valarlogs, @ 2019-08-19 07:06:00 |
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Immediately after his most recent dream Quentin had woken drenched in sweat and breathing hard before spending so much time under the spray of the shower that the water ran cold and Julia headed out for work. He should do that, get out of the shower and start his day, but he couldn’t. It was as though the shower had a hold of him, routing him like some tree, and it was only when his skin started to wrinkle that he finally stepped out.
Mostly he ran on auto pilot for the rest of the day. Running errands for Ozma, grabbing coffee and exchanging small talk, but the dream stayed with him. Haunted him even. The feeling of being locked up, thought a danger to the people he loved or his father in particular, being treated like he was deranged and the only way to get better was to pop pills and take part in group therapy. Dream!Quentin knew it didn’t work and so actual!Quentin knew that too so the idea of that working was laughable at best.
It had been nothing short of a nightmare. Almost convinced that Brakebills and everybody there had been some elaborate fantasy constructed by his sick unhappy mind in a desperate bid to create a safe place to try and keep himself from suicidal ideation.
There had been attempts, more than he cared to recall.
By the time the end of the day rolled around Quentin realised with a sinking sense of dread and something he couldn’t quite put his finger on that he needed to go home. He didn’t want to. Couldn’t. Not if it meant going through the same routine and facing another night of reliving the clawing sensation of being trapped, locked up and isolated. One of his only visitors being Julia but she had been wrong, asking questions, probing in ways that weren’t fitting for the situation. It was odd, disturbing and he hadn’t liked it. Not one bit.
So instead of going home he wandered the streets, slipping through the crowds and ignoring the growing sensation of being alone and misunderstood. It was crazy. He had friends, good friends, really good friends and yet he couldn’t shake it off like that damn Taylor Swift song that had gone around and around in his head during the dream. He’d thought about calling them but decided against it. Julia and Alex, they had enough going on and Eliot? Well, the last thing Quentin wanted to do was interrupt his evening with Felix and probably Margo. And calling Margo? Well, same situation as Eliot. Quentin definitely didn’t want to inflict himself on them, not right now, not when he didn’t even know how he was feeling.
Eventually his feet took him into a high rise parking facility that he took the stairs up to the very top floor where he stood regarding the view, but more importantly the drop below. His dream self had picked out a few key spots and it would seem some habits were hard to break. Still, he didn’t jump that was, just dug out a pack of cigarettes and lit one up to inhale and exhale smoke. It would be easy though, too easy. All it would take was one-
No, he needed to stop thinking that way.
That wasn’t him.
It wasn’t.
Stupid dreams. Of course that was easier said than done especially when it felt like his chest had a weight sitting on it and he couldn’t shake the distinct press of what he could only describe as absolute despair mixed in with a strange but dangerous cocktail of apathy and sorrow.
Still he lingered, eyes fixed on the space below, smoke curling around the stark lone figure he cut against the otherwise empty floor.
Breathe, he just needed to breathe.