Burn Out Bright (2/?)
When he lived alone Hanna would scream shrill and bloodcurdling.
At night he watches his parents die in graphic detail overandoverandover again. He wakes with ice in his veins, howling into the darkness. He shakes hysterically and grasps at his thin sheets unable to clear the blood-spattered visions from his head. Those are the easy nights; at least he gets some sleep.
Most nights though, his screaming wakes the neighbors. His abdomen is poorly held together, and his scars refused to heal; his breathing pulls the staples at odd angles and when he drifts off to fitful sleep he can’t keep inhaling shallow and measured. Instead his breaths grow deep and steady and ohsopainful as his body tears itself slowly apart. Skin pulls sharply in all the wrong directions, squeezing the breath from him in a violent wail. And he gasps and the staples just dig in again and fuck.
Scream.
Gasp.
Swear.
Repeat until dawn.
Now Gallahad sits at the foot of the bed most nights. The nightmares have slowed. When they do come there is a warm orange glow and a hand on his shoulder, and for the first time in his life the bloody visions fade into inky black sleep again. But nothing stays the pain that rips through him (not even Worth’s drugs), and Gallahad already worries too much without Hanna crying out like the dying. So now the nights spent screaming are spent staring at the ceiling, counting cracks and grinding his teeth until his jaw aches and the sun rises.
*~*
I'm still discontented down here
I'm still discontented
At night he watches his parents die in graphic detail overandoverandover again. He wakes with ice in his veins, howling into the darkness. He shakes hysterically and grasps at his thin sheets unable to clear the blood-spattered visions from his head. Those are the easy nights; at least he gets some sleep.
Most nights though, his screaming wakes the neighbors. His abdomen is poorly held together, and his scars refused to heal; his breathing pulls the staples at odd angles and when he drifts off to fitful sleep he can’t keep inhaling shallow and measured. Instead his breaths grow deep and steady and ohsopainful as his body tears itself slowly apart. Skin pulls sharply in all the wrong directions, squeezing the breath from him in a violent wail. And he gasps and the staples just dig in again and fuck.
Scream.
Gasp.
Swear.
Repeat until dawn.
Now Gallahad sits at the foot of the bed most nights. The nightmares have slowed. When they do come there is a warm orange glow and a hand on his shoulder, and for the first time in his life the bloody visions fade into inky black sleep again. But nothing stays the pain that rips through him (not even Worth’s drugs), and Gallahad already worries too much without Hanna crying out like the dying. So now the nights spent screaming are spent staring at the ceiling, counting cracks and grinding his teeth until his jaw aches and the sun rises.
*~*
I'm still discontented down here
I'm still discontented