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The fear inside of him is always all consuming, he is scared of everything. The mold in his room, her shrill voice, the lonliness that clings to him, the injuries that scar and ache, the darkness that could hold anything, the light that holds everything. He is scared to walk around any corner, to tiptoe down any street, to stand in any spot.
Because living in his world is consent to be mangled.
Those are the thoughts that paralyse him under the quilt in the only place he can breath–his bed...
Gerry had layne there for hours as fractals danced across his eye line and music that was not turned on, sung melodically. He wasnt sure if he'd always lived in the world with those notes just on the outskirts of notice and those images in only his peripherals or if it was possibly how little sleep he'd been getting or if it was whatever had grabbed his ankle and dug its claws into-.
He turns over in his bed, wrapping the quilt around him closer in an attempt to push the thoughts away- as if the thoughts were a person trying to reach out- as if anyone ever would reach o-.
Again he turns over and silences his brain so only the music can sing.
Now facing his alarm clock, he could see the analog peice of junk read 09:46—and counting—as its hands slowly; tick, tick, ticked, in a maddening chant of guilt. He should have been up hours ago, the thought usually so loud and panicking, was distant today, far away and unimportant yet still driving him further into her bed of pain.
It was good that her in all her screams and stining hands was hidden between ink and leather that was not leather today.
He sighs and rolls over 1 final time to face away from the clock and in turn any responsibility he had to get up.
Still the constant tick, tick, tick, reminded him in such concepts like time.
Gerry focused on the nonsense melodies that now filled the silence that didnt echo in his room. The music was wonderfully horrible, a mush of adagio and vivace, fortissimo and pianoissimo, stacatto and legato, swaying while so ridged, the one consistancy being those swirling hand clusters that hammered on an instrument Gerry couldn't pin point nor tell if existed.
He runs his hand through his hair and hums the incohearancy as he spirals his hair into a plait then undoes it.
Then plaits again, and undoes it.
Then plaits again, and undoes it.
Then plaits again, and undoes it.
Then plaits again, and undoes it.
And he repeats this in a content cycle that lasts what feels like eternity yet 10 minutes at the same time and spread apart.
He can't really remember when he last blinked, but his eyes burned so it must of been a while ago. He would blink now, but he didnt want to loose such a nice feeling. Blinking would ruin the fixed feeling that brought softeness to his mind.
He doesnt notice the sun starting to set until its gone and darkness consumes all.
But for once...
He does not panic.
He does not worry of the eyes that are watching, nor the hands under his bed, nor the void outside his window, nor the fall outside his door. All he feels is that hazy content feeling that he cant really pull away from.
His fingers braid his now knotting hair and he wonders what the sticky wetness running down his sharp pale hands is, but curiosity only ruins this intoxicating lull so he does not bother to check.
At some point his eyes must flutter shut, but that is ok because he will wake up and still be braiding, with no presence of fear, no eyes, no fog, no web, no rot, no burn, no fall, no choke, no blood, no chase, no war, no strange, no end.
Just descent.