leftover (moments)

Content Notes: medical settings, chocking, dissociation, slight injuries and gore, unclear/questionable consent, mentions of / allusions to suicidal ideation, sexual violence and abuse

Summer nights. Breathing in the stagnant air, every movement sluggish and dampened by memories of heat. The night pushes down, making everything so, so heavy. Dulled senses and slightly slurred words. Heavy tongues but loose lips. Sentences pushed through evaporated filters, dragging themselves out of dry mouths.

It's almost lights-out. You aren't supposed to be in a room together, but they gave up on enforcing that rule. Both of you got the same medication this evening: a small orange pill you washed down with too warm water. Everything is too warm and your binder clings to you, so tight you feel your ribs shift with every shallow breath. Your friend reminds you to not wear it so long but then falls asleep on the floor, completely knocked out by the meds. You finish making your bead-lizard and then wake your friend enough to half-carry him to his room next door.

The people you started the day with are mostly gone. They left, one by one, until only a handful remain. It's always the same ones who linger. Heat-flushed faces now bend over bottles or cigarettes or each other. You can almost hear the rustling of burned skin meeting glass or paper or itself, but the insects are too loud. Their songs drown out your thoughts.

The fan drones on, blowing hot air in your face in a mockery of refreshment. All windows are open in the vain hope of luring in a breeze. There is a head resting on your shoulder and you lean against it instinctively. A rare moment of physical contact, the additional warmth of your friend made bearable by the miniscule decrease in temperature. Both of you are tired but unwilling to move, unwilling to go to bed, not wanting to waste the few hours of relief.

Wind on bare flesh, sounds of delight at the sensation. For a moment everything becomes razor-sharp, no longer blunted by the heat-induced passiveness. Red eyes close, eliminating sight in an attempt to feel more intensely. To absorb the intensity. To swallow it all. It flows down your throat like honey. So sweet it makes you nauseous, so thick it makes you choke and underneath you swear you feel sharp edges where it has begun to crystalize. They cut up your insides and your mouth tastes like iron.

Trapped in a tent, unsure whether you're anticipating or dreading not being alone anymore. Listening to the same songs on repeat, hoping they drown out your thoughts. Drums and heartbeats disrupted by the sounds of animals and approaching steps. The smell of sunscreen and weed trapped in curly hair, the taste of alcohol now stinging on your tongue. Heavy breathing.

Shortly before midnight. You don't know how you made it this far and the last few months made it seem like you might not. You're scared of the phone calls tomorrow, the happy voices you try your best to match, the good wishes and congrats you feel like you don't deserve, almost as much as you're scared of the day after that when you'll be admitted to a clinic. It was your choice to go, but there were no real alternatives. You wonder how other people spend their 20th birthday.

Hands pushing you down, making everything so, so heavy. Your muscles ache from the bike ride today, your skin is sensitive and red even before he takes his nails and teeth to it and you're struggling less than usual. It's all playful, of course it is - just a brat that needs to be tamed. A prude that needs to be convinced. And there is little you can't be convinced to do, with your people-pleasing and inability to say no.

The mattress is wet and you're drenched in sweat. At least you hope it's sweat. There is a blanket covering your midriff that you could theoretically move to check, but you can't. It keeps the stench of your bandages and wounds somewhat at bay and that is more important to you. This is the lesser of the sensory hells. Your neighbor seems to be sleeping soundly, despite the constant beeping of the hospital rooms surrounding you. The seconds are long and you fight back tears, desperately waiting for the nurse and the meds they'll bring.

You look up through the window, trying to see the stars, but you only see a reflection you don't recognize but must be you. Constellations of bruises on your skin. Thin lines of blood on the bedsheet. You're not sure if you're the one in bed or the one in glass. Cracked lips whisper in your ear, the words putting you through a rollercoaster of emotions. Cracked lips open to show teeth. Cracked lips push against yours and you taste your own blood. Hands are around your neck, chocking you. Your eyes close and everything disappears. Glass cracks.