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It grips him around the throat, slow and flowing and at first it feels almost nice, like a newly woven scarf slipping around his neck but minute by minute it grows tighter, roughens like maybe there are fingernail clippings caught in the fibers. His face feels hot despite the cool breeze and there’s an ache in his right temple that echoes into the left when he stands too fast, goes to lean his face on the screen of his window.
He sighs, digs his fingers hard into the knot of pain and pressure in his head and bares his teeth, tries to vent it out without screaming and crying and crawling into his father’s bed, tucking his head between arm and ribs like when he was nine and his mother’s weak fingers would drop to curl through his hair.
He huffs, now, kicks at the pile of cheap stuffed animals the betas won him at the carnival, presented to him so eagerly, hopeful gleam to their eyes. He thought maybe he was going to fall asleep four hours ago but then he caught that stupid pig’s stupid eyes.
He drags himself across the room, feels heavy like he has an entire person strapped to his back, digs into his underwear drawer and pulls out an old bag of cool ranch doritos, scoops a handful into his mouth because yeah, he hasn’t eaten much today and maybe that’s why sleep is almost there but not, lurking at the corners of his eyes. They’re stale.
He drops back onto his bed, gives a desperate whine, rolls onto his side and curls like a frightened caterpillar. He wonders if he could twist himself tight enough to bury his head inside his belly because maybe the warmth and the sounds would lull him away.