Work Text:
A boy wakes up in his bed.
He stares at the ceiling fan for a while. Then at a patch of ceiling next to it. Then at the wall to his left. Sunbeams glare through the gaps in the shutters, casting light directly across his two dark eyes. Deep, dark circles are embedded beneath them.
Eventually, finding himself not falling back asleep, he rises. Reaches for a mechanical pencil and one of his many, many sketchbooks. Technically, it's a standard, lined-paper notebook, but he makes it work.
He draws for a while. Mindless doodles meaning very little. Or at least, little to his conscious thoughts. He never does know what all is going on up there.
The sun is still high in the sky when he goes to sleep.
-
A boy wakes up in his bed.
He stares at the ceiling for a while. Then the smell hits him. Lasagna. A small square of it, on a plate on his bedside table. A glass of water, and a fork. He sits up, pulls his pillow into his lap as a table, and tries.
Shaky hands pick up the fork and cut off a corner. He lifts it to his mouth. The moment the food hits his tongue, he gags. He drinks half the glass of water to wash out the taste
Logically, as much as he can be logical at this moment in time, he knows that the food tastes good. It shouldn't be an issue, really. But something about food at all is just-
(Something he can't hear, in his mind, whispers. How can he eat? He's full. He eats all the time. It's how he gets his HEART up.)
(Something deeper, quieter, buried, breathes something worse. How can he eat? She can't.)
(It's all his fault.)
It's gross.
He manages to choke down around half of the lasagna. By the time he's finished that much, it's cold and slimy.
Still, he manages to keep the food down.
This time.
He goes to sleep. Maybe his mom will bring food he can actually eat, next time. Like a well done steak. It's tough, and bland, and usually he can stomach it, unless he sleeps for so long that it goes bad. Or onigiri. That's what the other him likes.
-
A boy wakes up in his bed.
He stares at the ceiling fan. He draws the ceiling fan. He realizes that it's the middle of the night. He realizes that he has, yet again, been ignoring all bodily functions other than sleep.
Braving the journey to the bathroom takes longer than he'd like to admit. He spends an unspecified amount of time staring at the staircase.
(Wondering if he should follow her down?)
Regardless, the moon is in a different place than it was when he started.
He does his business, then washes his hands. He sees his own reflection.
He is pale. He is wearing pajamas from two Christmases ago. The last real Christmas he had. The one where he got-
The pajamas are blue, patterned with little penguins. Riding on sleds. They are a matched set, long-sleeved, long-legged, and extremely comfortable. His (their) parents always got the whole family matching pajamas at Christmas. For the photos. These still fit. They shouldn't.
(Hers, from that year, were purple, with snowmen sharing hot coco. Did the snowmen know that drinking it would dissolve them from the inside out? Did she know that he would?)
He doesn't know how long it's been since he's been wearing these. Weeks, probably. He changes undies often enough, it's probably fine. Well, he probably stinks, but he's grown used to his own smell and wouldn't be able to tell anyway. It's not as if he's going to see anyone like this.
Why should he care?
In the same vein, his hair is messy. Tangled, and grown out long past the point it's supposed to be at. He's shorter than he ought to be. He has acne now, and horrible eye-bags.
And, he realizes, he's been letting warm water run over his hands and forearms for several minutes now.
He shuts it off. He leaves. He goes to bed, and becomes someone else.
-
A boy wakes up in his bed.
He stares at the ceiling for four hours.
He goes back to sleep for eighteen.
-
A boy wakes up in his bed.
Someone (or Something) is pounding at the front door of the house. Since the sound has yet to go away, he guesses that his mom isn't home.
He makes it to the top of the stairs, with every intention to go down and stop the noise.
Shadows dance at the edges of his vision, grasping hands reaching, clinging, pushing-
There's a good chance the sound is another hallucination. No point in answering anyway. And besides, the moment he stepped away from the stairs, the shadows disappeared. That meant leaving was right.
Right?
The boy climbs into bed. He pushes one ear to the mattress, and puts a pillow over the other.
The noise should leave. Whoever is on the other side should leave. They should leave, and let him sleep.
(It's what he deserves.)
-
A boy wakes up in his bed.
His five closest friends lay around him, each perfectly placed in their own, color coded beds. Several items sit on the counter behind him. A Big Yellow Cat keeps careful watch. A set of six, perfect flowers stay in their individual pots to his left. Giant, sheer curtains are drawn away from a set of stairs that no longer go anywhere. All is right, here.
A boy wakes up in his bed.
-
A boy wakes up in his bed.
He convinces himself that this, this bed, here, these white, plaster walls, are the dream. His sky full of stars, his friends, his sister, are the reality.
He goes to sleep.
-
A boy wakes up in his bed.
No, he doesn't.
-
A boy wakes up in his bed.
His mother is in the room, setting down a plate of food that he is too far gone to recognize. She is lucky that he can still recognize her. A short time later, she has spoken so many things, in such a childish tone, that the boy is utterly exhausted.
He doesn't eat the food. He goes to sleep.
-
A boy wakes up in his bed.
A translucent figure with stringy hair, a gaping, dripping mouth, and a snapped neck is looming above him.
He pulls his blankets over his head, closes his eyes, and hyperventilates. But she is there too, on the insides of his eyelids. There is no escaping from what this boy has done.
-
A boy wakes up in his bed.
Seeing nothing worth staying awake for, he goes back to sleep.