I'm lying in bed but I can't sleep, a common occurrence thanks to the insomnia that I've been cursed with. More time to think, and that's the last thing that I need. I glance at the clock on my bedside, squinting to make out the numbers properly, the red lights glaring at me. 3:17. I blunder out of bed blindly, my eyes not yet adjusted to the dark, throwing back the covers and steadying myself against the wall. My hands are my guide, trailing my fingers along the wall until I reach the door frame, cautiously creeping from my room into the kitchen. There is no need to be quiet, I live alone, but I am careful to keep the level of noise to a minimum anyway. I reach up to open the cupboard, feeling the slight burn of the muscles in my arm as I stretch to reach a glass. I turn the cold metal tap, lukewarm water cascading down and crashing against the sink. I leave it for a few seconds to give it time to adjust, reaching the icy temperature I want it to, filling my glass.
I throw my head back and drain the liquid in a matter of seconds, like I am accustomed to doing with the whiskey. I can feel the water sloshing about in my system and it's uncomfortable, but the frosty temperature has given me a sense of alertness, and I'm suddenly more awake. The fog from my brain is lifted, and clear, coherent thoughts begin to form in my mind again. I slam the glass down against the kitchen surface with more force than I intended, leaning against the edge of the cool stone. With the clarity comes the sickness, and though the drink is still coursing through my veins, it is now too diluted to fight off the effects. I don't know what it is. Living, maybe. But being able to think means being able to feel, and I can feel the burn of my skin, the trembling of my hands, the no doubt shrinking of my pupils, the churning in my stomach. I fill the glass again, water spilling over the edges thanks to the tremors racking my body. As they become more violent I drop the glass completely, and watch as it shatters. I stumble forwards over the shards, my legs barely responding to the commands of my brain, the glass slicing my feet, but I can no longer bring myself to care.
It keeps getting worse. The withdrawal symptoms, and when I know that relief is so far away, I can't help but cry out. I keep blundering forwards until I find myself in the living room, at which point my legs refuse to work and simply give out on me. My outstretched arms break my fall and stop me from tumbling through the window, although I wished I had. Sprawled on the floor in nothing but a pair of boxers, I curl into a ball, watching the city through the thick glass in place of the wall, covering from ceiling to floor. The lights, the people, the action that I no longer feel a part of, but it's my home. They say home is where the heart is, but where does that leave me? Fucked. For the rest of the world, home is a sanctuary, safety, friends and family and warmth and hope and happiness and everything that is good in this world, not that there's an awful lot of that left. This place is a reflection of me, empty, void of character, cold, lonely.
I want to feel like me again, even though I know I don't deserve it. Young, seven year old Dan, who could never have dreamed such evil existed in this world, with a smile on his face, the worst pain in his life being a scraped knee or being forced to eat sprouts. He's a stranger now. The wail of police sirens somewhere in the street below brings me back, and the sweat on my hands is no longer sweat but it's blood, and I'm not curled up on my floor but on the grass, and I'm not shaking from the pain from shock. The city beneath me is alive, and my eyes are open, seeing, but not seeing. Lights, cars, people, they're all shadows, unimportant.
Pain in my chest alerts me to the fact I've been holding my breath, and I gasp, but it won't come properly. I'm a mess, and even when the lack of oxygen makes my brain feel fuzzy and cuts off some of my thought, I know that much. Even as the panic sets in, and I'm desperately trying to get enough oxygen into my lungs for my body to function, I still can't help but think that everything would be easier if I was just dead. My eyes flutter closed, and with a huge effort I return my breathing to normal, sitting up and pressing my cheek to the cold glass of the window, watching the web of the city. I prefer the bustle of the streets to the almost desperate seclusion of the countryside, but it comes with a downside. The people, so many people. This place used to make me feel alive, and I could forget, but nothing helps. Not anymore. You can drink, but you never really forget. You can leave your ghosts behind, but they always catch up with you in the end.
I watch as the moisture in my breath condenses on the cold glass of the window, lifting my hand to trace a pattern, reminding me of long car journeys as a child. I lean away slightly, looking at the childish, sloppy heart I've drawn; the first thing to make me smile slightly for as long as I can remember. But a few seconds pass, and a single drop trails from the top of the heart right through the bottom, and the hint of a smile vanishes. Just like everything else, it ends, and it's broken. I touch the path the drop has left behind it, feeling unusual sadness in the broken heart on my window. I wipe it away with my sleeve, frowning as I leave a smudge on the glass, which no amount of rubbing will remove.
I decide to leave it until the morning, getting up, stretching in an attempt to reduce the soreness in my limbs. All of my muscles hurt from the shaking, my head is still pounding and the clarity that remains in my head means that the ache won't go away, but it's bearable. I feel sleep beginning to descend on me, and I decide to give in, hoping the haze will take away the soberness, even just for a while. I take a few unsteady steps, the movement creating a sudden rush of blood from my head, leaving me temporarily blinded and doubled over in pain for a few seconds before my body adjusts, and I make my way blindly to my bed.
Worries plague me before sleep takes over, but when don't they? Worries about the future, about my past, about me. Anxiously biting my nails, I close my eyes and let myself drift into unconsciousness, slipping into a troubled sleep, but its sleep nonetheless. Even with the image of her broken body visible in my mind's eye, the occasional flash of pink hair, dark eyes that I've feared ever since I ran. All the terrors and mistakes of my past laid out before me, but it's still sleep. I never expected an escape.