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His eyelids shudder open.
Everything is cold. He's lying down, on the restroom floor, in the space between the sink and the bathtub. The marble tiles smell faintly of flowers.
It hurts. To breathe. To move. His head feels light, foggy as he rises from the floor, grip on the porcelain sink shaky. He must have fallen. He can't remember, but it kind of pleases him that he can't remember. After all, it was so that he could completely forget.
His throat feels raw when he swallows.
"Oh, gosh! I'm so sorry!"
The waitress's frantic voice pulls him back to the present. It seems she has tripped, and by accident, spilled a bit of his beverage onto their table. He gives her a hand as she wipes up the mess with some nearby paper towels:
"Don't worry about it."
Is it time?
What?
Is this it? Is this when you're going to die?
He hands the dirty napkins to the waitress. His drink still looks relatively full. It's bitter, strongly caffeinated, when he takes a sip.
Is this going to kill me? What if I drink too much caffeine one day and then I die? Is that possible? A caffeine overdose? Would that be possible with the type of caffeine I'm ingesting?
"Hey, are you even listening to us?"
His hand stiffens around the cup. He forgot they were sitting there. That other people were around. For a second, nothing existed but him and the caffeine in his cup. The looming possibilities.
"Sorry; what did you say?"
The teenagers repeat themselves. He can't hear a thing. None. His mind is blank, blank, blank. They spoke just now and he caught none of it.
"I— wait, I'm sorry, I missed it again. Would you mind repeating that one more time?"
It's not working. He's not functional. Is this a sign?
The turtleneck makes everything itchy and hot underneath the glaring summer sun, but he cannot touch it, not here, not now.
Maybe you should just █████████.
Shit. He needs to remember. He needs to feel. Feel it. Around his throat. In his head. That he's in control. That anytime he wants he can start this and stop it like the flip of a switch. Nothing but a harmless exercise. He's grown blasé. Nothing more than a forceful reminder that it's fine, everything's fine, and if it keeps heading in the direction it is right now and it's not, he'll probably not have to be around to see how it ends up.
"Star Platinum."
Strong hands wrap around his neck. They squeeze. So much harder than his own, so much better than his own. He'll take it.
Harder.
Blood pools in his head like its a balloon. No more air. His neck feels like lead. Everything is numb, numb, numb, and he wants it.
Harder.
His eyes are tearing up. His windpipe feels crushed. Head is heavy, as are limbs, and a senseless buzz is making its way up into him now, from the tips of his toes and fingers to each part of his flesh, like static, like rest, seeping all the way into the core of his very being.
Won't be long now. He's already twitching, black spots blooming in his vision. He's stopped seeing. Won't be long now before he stops feeling.
Harder, you coward, godfuckingdamnit.
Won't be long now before he stops thinking.
His eyelids shudder open.