Disclaim: I don't own; I borrow with the odd exception.
Author's Note: I warn you that this is not for the faint of heart and is rated M for a reason. It deals with a lot of heavy subject matter. There are implications that you may or may not pick up on. Read critically and with a open mind—I cannot stress that enough. This is a little something I pulled out of my ass and whipped up in something like an hour with the help of my good friend Kris. Dallas is afraid of the dark, and he has damn good reason. Flames are more than welcome. Written for the November Rumble over at WSOTT.

Insomnia
One| Raw

No sleep, no rest. Cigarette to lips and you know why. All these stupid thoughts bumping against the backs of your eyelids. Things that make you shiver, inhale too deep and cough. Warm breath against cold air, you know why you're so afraid of sleep—or is sleep afraid of you? Your mind is a rotten place, host to all the world's corruption, infectious in the way that it keeps on infecting. Mold's spread over your insides, killed them and turned them black. Dead, but you're still breathing.

Corruption—you wear it like a badge. Hold your head too high because you are just too filthy. And you have people to thank for that. The ones who made you rot. It's your fault because you let them in—you let them leave their marks and take everything you thought had like you were just something to be used. Not anymore, though. Now, you're untouchable because you know the difference between the hands that hurt and the ones that just don't care enough to. The ones that will stain you—smear your soul and watch as you self-destruct. And the worst part is that you can't even claim to have killed yourself. You'll never have that privilege.

It's not just people that have killed you. It's places, too. Nights spent in shady alleys with shady people on the shady side of the city. If you were lucky, you got to spend the night in some pervert's bed after he cut the lights and told you not to scream. Never could see the guy your dad had whored you out to for the night. His hands on your body, and you knew that doing anything other than what he wanted would kill you. Slit your throat and leave you there because they didn't have time for difficult little shits like you. They were just out to get their dick sucked, same as everyone else. And who's to say that you didn't pick up anything useful, anyways? A few tricks here and there never hurt anybody. At least you know you can use your mouth. You can thank New York for that.

But like that's ever gotten you far, right? Dad's hand has left more bruises than you can count, and even if you could, you wouldn't. Or would you? Poke at them maybe just to make sure you're alive. Check to see if you can still feel because you're just so numb, frozen under all the hurt. The contusions under your skin stand out against hollow everything—eyes and lips and bones. Blood has never been so dark, looked so red. Skin stretched tight over cheeks and jaw, black and purple around your eyes because on top of not sleeping, you haven't eaten in who knows how long. Sunken in and disgusting. You're sure this is as close to death as you're going to get. That's what you pray for, anyways. Ironic, 'cause you're not religious, even in the slightest.

Back to Dad. Beats you if you look at him sideways. Better just to keep your eyes to yourself and hope like hell he's out courting that whore every time you walk into the house. You would rather starve than put up with him or have him come home when everything is dead and quiet just to knock a couple of your teeth down your throat. If you're lucky—and you never are—he stops there. Doesn't slam you against the floor, pin you down and make you wish he would just kill you already. And you can't ever see because it's always fucking dark. Face always pressed into hardwood or carpet, eyes clamped shut, devoured by something that you still can't call by name. If it has one, that is.

And if it wasn't you, it was Mom. Lovely woman with fine features and eyes that could stop time. She took it with her mouth shut, though, and it was always for your sake. Thought that you'd stop being so scared if she made it look like it hurt less. Brave lady—too bad he killed her. Put her six feet under because he hit her just a little too hard and her neck snapped just a little too wrong. Said she fell down the stairs when the cops showed up and boy did he put on a good show. You almost believed him, but you saw the entire deal. How he shoved her down the stairs after she was dead and told you to keep your fucking mouth shut. Of course you did—you weren't itching to get cut.

Still dream about it, don't you? Still play that night over and over in your head as you hid in the coat closet and watched. Should've jumped in, and you're constantly wishing it was you lying in a pine box instead. Sometimes you wake up in a cold sweat because you swear you just heard your mom call your name, or she smoothed your hair out and told you to stay asleep. That's when your dad stalks in and tells you to quit making so much fucking noise and leaves you with another shiner. What doesn't kill you is going to leave a scar, and you don't know what's worse—being scarred beyond recognition or these things not killing you? You are so ready to be dead.

Especially because you can't turn out the lights without being scared out of your skull. It's not your fault, though. Demons lurk, waiting to slit their way into your mind and eat you from the inside out. Skeletons in your closet? No—you have dead bodies. You have your life, all stripped down and decayed, swinging from hangers and piling up on your floor. Trip over them constantly, let them suffocate you and keep you awake at night because you don't have the guts to face any of them. You don't have it in you to pick them up, fold them and tuck them away neatly. Touching them is like pouring acid on an open wound. And acid eats through everything, so the wound is more like one huge hole, burning and burning until you think you might throw up.

So your insomnia is justified. You're raw.