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My socks are wet.
That was what he focused his mind on, instead of everything else that was happening right in front of him.
Phil and Wil were fighting again.
When were they never?
He sees the tears that roll down his fathers cheek. It seemed like they were never dry in the first place. Wil still smells like alcohol and whatever drug he got from the dealer this week. The life has drained from his eyes.
His had probably been drained of its life too.
My socks are wet.
He looks down onto the hands that grip tightly onto his pants. The fabric strains and looks like it's on the verge of splitting. The pasta has long been forgotten about, but its not like Tommy has the appetite either, he never gets hungry anymore. Techno is zoned out, guess he’s found a way to cope with all the arguing that happens around the house.
Tommy could only wish for such an ability.
My socks are wet.
Tommy wants to run. He never has the energy to, but he still wants to run. Tubbo would be his safest bet, but it’s merely impossible to get there by foot. Maybe he’d run to the park, because it’s always empty at about this time, and Tommy doesn’t think that he’ll be able to cope with other people watching him break down. Or maybe, he’ll call plan B. He’s saved enough money from his shifts at the DVD store, and he knows at least a few good areas that he could crash at for a night or two. But he knows that he’s too much of a pussy to really do anything of that nature. Couldn’t put up a fight even if his life were at stake.
My socks are wet.
How did they even get wet in the first place? It must have been the rain, or that puddle that he stepped in on his way back home. Tommy couldn’t really see properly, hyperfocused on the fresh bandage that wrapped around his forearm. Tubbo drew a bee on it’s center during English, and he smiled whenever he thought about it. He was the only thing that gave him any sort of joy nowadays.
̶H̶e̶’̶s̶ ̶b̶e̶e̶n̶ ̶t̶h̶e̶ ̶o̶n̶l̶y̶ ̶t̶h̶i̶n̶g̶ ̶t̶h̶a̶t̶’̶s̶ ̶k̶e̶p̶t̶ ̶h̶i̶m̶ ̶a̶l̶i̶v̶e̶ ̶f̶o̶r̶ ̶t̶h̶e̶ ̶l̶a̶s̶t̶ ̶3̶ ̶y̶e̶a̶r̶s̶.̶ ̶
Now that he thinks about it, it was probably from that bottle of water that Trevor, or whatever his name was, poured over him during lunch break. Everyone was looking, watching him get pushed onto the concrete floor. Tommy subconsciously reaches over his jaw, rubbing along the ugly bruise that had formed across it. He remembers it now, the way metal filled his mouth, and the snickers and scoffs of his classmates that filled his ears.
Tommy has this bad habit of forcing every bad incident out of his mind. He’d like to think of it like crushing a piece of paper until it’s nothing but a singular spec of dust. Completely and undoubtedly useless to him at any area in his life.
But this was not a time where he would like to be thinking about all of the fuck ups that he’s had in his life. Not right now, when he’s already in the process of deleting the current situation from his brain and into wherever broken dreams go to.
My socks are wet.
Cold.
everything.
Is.
cold.
Tommy feels a sweat trickle down his forehead.
Why is everything so cold?
He looks around the dining room, feeling a distinct lack of warmth in the midst of all the nicely decorated fairy lights. The fork he attempts to pick up sends icy touches onto the pads of his fingers, and startle him out of his grasp.
Techno looks over towards him when that happens. And there’s this moment of genuine concern that flashes before the other’s eyes, asking if he really was okay.
Not before Wil lets out another shout, forcing his gaze back down towards his plate.
My socks are wet.
God, does he feel so alone.
He would take his meds, but they were in his school bag that sat on his bed upstairs. His vision is blurry. Was he crying, or was it just his anxiety acting up again?
Whatever it was, he feels burning hot liquid rise up his throat. Bile and probably the two bites of lunch that he never finished. Tommy swallows it back down though, pleading for his body to stop revolting and behave.
But they fail him anyways, and he feels molten tears drop down onto crooked knuckles, slowly turning white.
My socks are wet.
My fingers are wet.
I think I might be drowning.
help.