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Summary
“I’ve got a headache.”
And he does, and it’s (unbearable) awful, and he’s been trying to shake it off for days, but it clings and holds on and won’t let him go. The room is full and stuffy (like his skull) and he can hear every sigh, every sniff, every brush of fabric against fabric, skin against skin. They’re all high – of course they’re all high – but he just can’t seem to climb along. Everything looks grey, like every day in this shithole.