Bad morning
Jul. 1st, 2009 01:21 am![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
a_bad_jokeHe doesn't remember falling asleep. J was laying on the floor and became wrapped up in the loud, soothing sound of the train's wheels against the rails. He was trying to hold back being sick and it was slowly passing. The next thing he knows he's awakened by the train's whistle and a pounding pain that threatens to split his skull from the inside.
Getting to his feet involves a lot of awkward staggering as the train rounds a bend. His stomach lurches and rolls with the movement and everything is too much. He staggers to the side door of the container and knocks the latch free with a knife. He slides the door open a couple feet, holding it in place and using it to keep himself upright as he does. Sunlight pours in and blinds him as he leans his head out to be sick.
"Oh God..."
He slides down to his knees, still clinging to the door, and proceeds to heave uncontrollably, voiding his stomach and continuing even once he's been pumped dry. His guts cramp from the useless effort and his throat burns. He can't remember the last time he felt so wretched.
When he can finally pull himself up a bit and wipe his mouth, he slides the door shut to block out the damnable light. Everything is so loud. The train is too loud, Mitch is too loud. The man's breathing is infuriating. He thinks of smothering the man to stop it.
Instead he moves to a far corner of the box they're sharing and presses his face against the cool metal and into the safe darkness. He crouches down low, presses one hand to the floor, and releases the blade on a narrow switchblade with the other. There are small clangs of metal on metal in a rhythmic pattern, increasing in speed as he mumbles to himself and tries to distract himself from pain, sickness, and noise with the knife game; the blade comes down between each finger of his hand one after the other with increasing speed and stranger patterns of order.
"Shouldn't have...nnn...stupid stupid alcohol... So loud. Need to tell them not to drive so loud... Should be stopping soon. They have to stop soon. I just need water. Water and fresh air... two one five one three six two six... ow.. four one six one two five."
He's numbered the spaces between fingers and recites them off as he plays to help with focusing on it. He stabs himself between two knuckles and keeps going, even as he bleeds.
Getting to his feet involves a lot of awkward staggering as the train rounds a bend. His stomach lurches and rolls with the movement and everything is too much. He staggers to the side door of the container and knocks the latch free with a knife. He slides the door open a couple feet, holding it in place and using it to keep himself upright as he does. Sunlight pours in and blinds him as he leans his head out to be sick.
"Oh God..."
He slides down to his knees, still clinging to the door, and proceeds to heave uncontrollably, voiding his stomach and continuing even once he's been pumped dry. His guts cramp from the useless effort and his throat burns. He can't remember the last time he felt so wretched.
When he can finally pull himself up a bit and wipe his mouth, he slides the door shut to block out the damnable light. Everything is so loud. The train is too loud, Mitch is too loud. The man's breathing is infuriating. He thinks of smothering the man to stop it.
Instead he moves to a far corner of the box they're sharing and presses his face against the cool metal and into the safe darkness. He crouches down low, presses one hand to the floor, and releases the blade on a narrow switchblade with the other. There are small clangs of metal on metal in a rhythmic pattern, increasing in speed as he mumbles to himself and tries to distract himself from pain, sickness, and noise with the knife game; the blade comes down between each finger of his hand one after the other with increasing speed and stranger patterns of order.
"Shouldn't have...nnn...stupid stupid alcohol... So loud. Need to tell them not to drive so loud... Should be stopping soon. They have to stop soon. I just need water. Water and fresh air... two one five one three six two six... ow.. four one six one two five."
He's numbered the spaces between fingers and recites them off as he plays to help with focusing on it. He stabs himself between two knuckles and keeps going, even as he bleeds.
