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He should feel shame in a time like this. Shame that he had failed himself, shame that he had failed others. But, he couldn't.
He just sat in the White room, and let his uneven breath escape his mouth, it didn't echo, simply disappearing into the void that surrounded him.
This time, there was no light, yet something still dug away at his mind, in the way that only hidden things could when he was sitting in this room. He was hiding from something, that strange panic told him he couldn't ignore it, but he was tired. He would let the poor fuck that woke up in a few hours deal with that.
He wouldn't even think about what could have gone wrong. He wouldn't think of what could have brought him back to this abyss. Where he lived without pain yet teetered on collapse such that he had to reject any attempt at acknowledging reality, less the truths of his life break through to drag him into that pit of over-stimulation and guilt.
He simply sat in the room and cursed his own weakness, that he had made yet another mistake. Damn it all. This place was boring. He had taken up art after the confession, but while the sketchbook was still here he had no pen, and he didn't particularly care for writing with blood. So he just had to sit and take the endless wait he had enforced upon himself, just to avoid having to confront reality. Damn it all.
In the tedium of white space, he might have once considered suicide, in the past, but that thought held no comfort anymore. Besides, he couldn't have possibly messed up that amazingly badly. He would probably recover from this.
And so he waited, and waited. This had only happened a few times after the confession, and he had sworn off the knife, especially since he woke in a panic whenever he was harmed here these days, without Omori to separate his dreams and reality. But if he waited, then eventually he would transition back into reality, and he could figure out how to fix his failures.
So he waited, this time he knew nothing would happen, but he needed a break, a chance to just relax from the stimulation of reality. Of course, if he stayed here too long or came too often he would begin slipping again, and even if he could only suffer internally here, without the physical pains and social pressures of reality, suffer he still eventually would as his self hatred began to build and bubble at his own uselessness. It was like what Sunny imagined managing a drug addiction would be. At first it would be great, then it would be a struggle, then it would be hell. He had gone through that once before, and the cost of escaping the cycle had been too great on those around him, as well as taxing on his life itself, nearly burning him away.
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