Chapter Text
Was it his fault?
His vision is blurry.
His head hurts. His face was throbbing. He didn't feel like he was in his own body.
it's not him.
It's not him. It's not him. It's not him.
He wasn't in his own body. He was watching everything as if it were a movie, in third person, he didn't recognize his hands, his legs, his body at all. He took steps, he was in a slow thick fog, They didn't feel like his, they were someone else's, he was damn sure they were someone else's. It wasn't him, it wasn't him, it wasn't...
He found himself sitting in his kitchen. He could hear screams in the background. He didn’t understand what was happening. His hands were shaking in a way they never had before. It felt like they weren’t his. Like they had a life of their own.
He can see silhouettes passing in his surroundings. It only identifies the kitchen. He cannot clearly see who is moving, what they are saying, what is happening at all. What just happened? Can he remember it?
His cheek stings. Hurts.
His head the same.
He fumbles for some ice and a rag. He places it on his cheekbone. The screams increase as if it were possible. He doesn't move from his place. No more.
It's his fault, right? He started it, he provoked it, he...
Press the ice a little harder on his face. He feels nothing more than a slight sting in the area. He ignores it. His head is blank. He doesn't understand why. Maybe he doesn't want to understand it. Maybe he can't.
His arms are getting heavier. And he want to ask, why, why, why, is it his fault? Was it really? He knows he is, he doesn't have to victimize himself like that, he's just making everything about himself and exaggerating the situation, it wasn't that bad, it wasn't. His dramatic head is increasing it, perhaps to make himself look bad. Right? He is doing it. It always is.
He's selfish, and a bad brother, and an idiot... and... and he just... he's the worst...
His cheeks are wet. He’s crying. He wishes he could control it.
It wasn’t that bad. It wasn’t. He’s exaggerating. He always does.
The blur in his head continues.
White.
His body shakes as the screams continue.
He can't even identify what they are saying. He can't move. Still there. Stuck in a fucking chair.
His body does not respond to him. It's not him.
It's not him, because this didn't happen to him, because this didn't happen, or if it did happen, it was he, himself who caused it because he never...
Oh.
Oh.
That did happen, right?
The pain is deep. Move the ice away from his face. He leaves it on the table next to him. Take a closer look at his hand.
Keep shaking. He can't control it.
He doesn't know what's happening.
He only remembers, in his field of vision, some bars on the house next door. It was the only thing he could focus on. They were the only seconds that can be remembered.
The screams stop. A few hurried steps. It doesn't define the silhouette at all. And a loud slam of the door in the background.
Everything hurts.
Absolutely everything.
The fog is still there. Cover his vision. He still doesn't understand what's happening. His body is separated from his mind and he want to sink into his bed and disappear and never come out, probably all together.
Hands hold him by the arms. He shudders hard, almost cowering in terror at the surprising contact. The hands move away quickly.
''He left.''
A voice. Elderly.
And they are two words.
Who? Who left?
Why does his body feel relieved when he hear it?
His body settles.
It’s over.