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It had only been thirty minutes.
Trophy's head feels like he's spinning around and around and around- yet, distantly, his body lays on its side. The cold porcelain tiles is what rocks him to Earth, keeps him in line with the floor, while his eyes struggle to open against the harsh ceiling light and hum of the bathroom fan. It's like the sun is beaming down at him, sucking whatever air is left in his lungs, akin to a doctor shining a flash into Trophy's eyes. Whenever his eyes are able to open against the heavy weight of his lids, all he sees is bright, bright, too bright-
And then he's away, far from consciousness.
When he comes to, it's a struggle. Everything sounds like he's under water, feels like it, too. Muffled, far away, not for him, forced to watch his body move and act like a puppet while drool slips from his mouth. Blood flowing through his veins, his chest heaving with instinct, Trophy doesn't process his eyes closing. Unable to fathom how his body moves for him, cheek pressing against the cold, cold, cold porcelain of a toilet bowl.
Puking hurts.
He can hardly think of anything else. Just that everything hurts. Hurts, hurts, hurts. Painful. Hot and cold. Sweaty. Too hot. Too cold. Too everything.
The bloated aspect of something coming out of the wrong end, drool never-ending as his body prepared for the worse, and then- stinging, pouring from his mouth, overwhelming in both taste and scent.
More painful than the times he had cut himself. The pain here is deeper, seeping into the empty pit of his stomach, spewing out every which way- splattering against the sides, chunks of whatever sad meal he last ate, the foamed up spittle mixed with all he took in the past hour. Whatever contents was left in his stomach is splashing against the toilet, getting on the floor, in his fingers, down his mouth- it's fucking disgusting.
Trophy is disgusting. He's sitting against the toilet, drooling, vomit pooling around him as his body hacks and gulps and cries.
Cheeks sore, stomach throbbing, entire body aching from exertion, his ribs pulse from the workout caused by repeatedly heaving for who knows how long.
This is all his fault, Trophy knows. He can't find it in himself to pick up his body just yet. Sits in his own mess while his mind recovers.
This is what happens when you want to kill yourself. No matter what happens, no matter how hard you try, you'll always fail.
Time moves on without Trophy.
When he is more lucid, his jacket is torn off and pushed into the caked up mess. The award bends down and gulps from the sink, profusely, a desert awaiting for the next downpour. Drinks until another wave of nausea forces him to stop, when his throat isn't able to work with him anymore. With his entire body stiff, the tangy scent of puke, and how sweaty he was, Trophy felt like this entire ordeal was just rubbing salt in the wound. He didn't take enough. He was a fucking wimp. What else is new?
He hardly bothers to clean up the mess entirely. A lot of what he's able to clean is flushed with an abundance of toilet paper.
Mind wandering away from him, Trophy doesn't process just how long he takes. It could have been another thirty minutes, perhaps an hour. His jacket is soaked, his hands are forever tarnished, and his arms laid bare for the world to see. Legs unstable, throat swallowing against nothing, Trophy stalks out of the shared bathroom. His shared bathroom. The one with Tissues, who's absent from the double bedroom.
It would have been a bitch to explain this.
Despite his stomach full for the first time in days with tap water, Trophy's mouth smacks with dry familiarity. Thirst gnaws at him, but he knows he can't quell it until he gets rid of the mess entirely. The scent. Tissues' is most likely used to the smell of puke, with how often his condition cycles between manageable to worse, yet Trophy isn't. The odour is clinging in his nose, his hands, his clothes. Grimy and sticky.
His entire space is dark save for Tissues' nightlight (not Trophy's, mind you.), utilizing it as a guide throughout the bedroom. Avoids the creaky floorboards despite the lack of roommate. He's probably having movie night with the others.
Replacing his tank top with a different copy and slipping on a new pair of sweatpants, Trophy balled up his dirty varsity jacket with the spare clothes. Sucking in a deep breath, he left. Taking the trip down to the hotel's laundry room shouldn't have taken so much time, but each corner of a hallway had him do double-takes left and right, jumping with every little sound. Brain frazzled, movements clumsy, Trophy had just terribly sinned and is now being shoved into his mess, the entire world patronizing him for existing.
His stomach hurts.
Starting a new cycle in the machine, Trophy leaned his entire upper half against it. Head clinking against the top glass, eyes shutting, the cool surface contrasted pleasantly against his sweat-sheen skin. The stirring rumble of the washer starting up.
The award's body ached worse than it has the previous times. Each movement drained him more than the last.
He knew he had to move eventually.
Yet he stays, body worn down, brain unable to keep chugging on.
Trophy's eyes weigh too much to open, he's only able to twitch his fingers against the washing machine before he's under again.
The setting changes, sleep overtakes him.
Trophy has to grab at the teeth falling from his maw, watches it phase through his fingers and drop through the floor, before clinging onto a steering wheel- car bumbling through the woods, snapping twigs, bumping against trees- foot stuck against the gas, try as he might to lift the pressure, before it tumbles into a clearing. The abyss underneath his shoes, the car fading away, orange and pink clouds surrounding him. The dream feels as real as his breathing, seems as lucid as the frantic rise and fall of his chest. He's looking down at himself, at his hands, at his body, fluid and moving the same as any other living person.
Which is strange, because didn't he- wasn't he meant to be dead? Why is he still alive? What's happening? Didn't he take enough to-
Drawing his gaze up, Trophy meets his own reflection against a too clean mirror. The scenery around him becomes consumed, his eyes meet his copy like perfect puzzle pieces. Pupils thin, vascular clean of any imperfections, not red from crying or being high. Something tells him to wake up. It tells him he has to, its urgent, he can't delay any further.
Sleep makes his fingers numb and his body heavier than ever before. He fights to sit himself up, drags himself against the closest flat surface. Blearily, blinking foolishly until his eyes adjusted, his mind rights itself.
Trophy's back had been pressed against the wall, tucked against the floor, arms wrapped protectively around himself while a blanket was draped over him. The next breath he lets out shakes. Glancing over to the wash, his clothes were folded neatly. Did he do that?
No, he couldn't have. Trophy would have remembered that, wouldn't he? Did his mind travel too far away from him to recall? If he did manage to fold his clothes in his stupor, why was he on the ground? Not hidden in his room, underneath the covers? The award could have been too far out of it to gather his things and leave. He could have been vomiting down his front and walking through the halls earlier without even knowing, loopy and dizzy and trailing far away from his mind. Trophy grimaced, tongue darting out to wet his dry lips, gut twisting uncomfortably at the thought of him making a fool of himself while... Under.
Protectively, he tugs the blanket around himself taut, indulging in himself by pulling it up to smell it. Warmth and fresh laundry. Distant and impersonal. His favourite.
He has to leave eventually.
And so, he does. Grabs all of his things and retreats back to his room, blanket wrapped around his shoulders as he stalks inside- dropping it all onto his bed before huddling into the mattress. Pointedly ignoring the empty bottles shoved into his bedside drawer, ignoring the full ones behind those, lets the fuzz of his damaged brain overtake him. Exhaustion reaching its peak. Pain furling underneath his skin. He clings onto the blanket tighter. Tries not to think about where it came from, what it meant for him to have it, because that meant he'll have to return it. To delay his absence a day longer. To have more time to dwell on his self-proclaimed prophecy.!
The simmering want, for completion, is what will kill him.
The purpose of succeeding, of going through a goal entirely, to not be lesser than. To prove to others that your ending is gospel.
Death, for him, wasn't meant to be permanent.
Trophy needed to have it for himself.