His hands work their way into his pockets, one hand closing around the cylinder of the bottle there. The closest he comes to a cure, and it isn't even really one, because if he stops, there's still that clench of the meat of his heart, the ache and press of muscles locking up and then the stillness that follows, the window into which something else can creep in and take root.
It's a shield. A safety net.
But nothing will ever make him less broken.
He stares at the hospital, at the familiar snake-coil of dread drawing tight in his gut, the painful pulse of trepidation metastasizing into something toxic, something bitter and fermented lemon and sticking to the roof of his mouth.
"It's about picking your best world and living it."
no subject
His hands work their way into his pockets, one hand closing around the cylinder of the bottle there. The closest he comes to a cure, and it isn't even really one, because if he stops, there's still that clench of the meat of his heart, the ache and press of muscles locking up and then the stillness that follows, the window into which something else can creep in and take root.
It's a shield. A safety net.
But nothing will ever make him less broken.
He stares at the hospital, at the familiar snake-coil of dread drawing tight in his gut, the painful pulse of trepidation metastasizing into something toxic, something bitter and fermented lemon and sticking to the roof of his mouth.
"It's about picking your best world and living it."
He is a liar.