testr

She was trying, at least. Trying to under the sudden hesitance of the young man sat in front of her as if she where his new therapist. In some ways she was. To him, anyway.

From a single comment he had been thrown back years into the past. Whatever it was they had been planning was long gone from his mind. Replaced by repressed self-analysis and second guessing. The things about her that had driven him mad moments ago no longer registered. All he saw was a woman who was offering him advice.

Though she meant no true counselling by her words, Isaiah took it as such, and took a while to think on her words. One hand a fist, the other clasped over it, running back and forth over the knuckles.

“But I...I'm not,” he admitted. Not to her, but to himself. Tossing the words around in his head, trying to refute it. It was impossible. Truth staring him right in the face. There was no point lying about it. Reverting back to his post-hiatus self. Ruthless and calculated façade falling away to reveal something less refined. Something terrified.

Still unable to look at her, he watched the window netting wave at him.

I hate myself. My body. The way I think. What I do and don't feel.

“With any of it.”

You fuck people just to feel desired. That's all you want. To be wanted.

There was the first aid kit in the bathroom, above the sink. How long had it been since he checked what was inside? He couldn't remember buying a new set of needles. Neither could he remember opening the lid, the stiff lock requiring just a little more than he could give. Lip of the box scarred and scraped in withdrawal shakes, carving the key into the wineglass-green plastic each time his shaking fingers missed the lock.

Fuck. He need a jolt of something. His foot began to tap the floor, tongue wetting dry lips. How long had it been?

Usually he was too drunk to remember when and what he'd taken. The standard time it took for a true withdrawal was around three days. Sometimes just the one. Depending on the substance and the dosage.

Cunt. Where's my morphine? Where. The. Fuck.

He looked passed her, trying to remember. Isaiah frowned and looked at her, properly. Frowning. Why was she wearing the gown? Had it been a day already? A couple of other questions filtered through his head but nothing he could name. Put into words.

Did we...?

No. He would have remembered. In principle. Right now he couldn't recall a single thing from what he assumed was the past three months. Had anything happened at all? Had he even left the flat. Fridge stoked with food and drink said yes, he had. Memories said no, he hadn't. Lynn – or her presence – was the single attribute that seemed to hold any meaning. Meaning he didn't quite get. Not strong enough to pass through a doubt-clouded mind. What had he been doing.

Isaiah stood up and pointed to the door. “Leave.”

Space. Room. He need a place to think. All that was on his mind was the blistering, gaping maw of blank memories. A chunk of time swallowed whole.

What is she doing here?

“Get out. Leave the gown. I...I need to think...”

| as being of value anymore |