Torn Souls

13. Cold, cold, cold

The recollection of last night seared through his arms causing George to wince. He laid on his back on his bed, in his dark room in which the blinds and curtains were closed completely. He lifted his arm into veiw above his head. They were fresh, red, and swollen. The scabs were still forming, these were deeper than before. Too deep for coconut oil to fix.

His shirt was tossed on the floor but he still had his sweatpants on. They were still damp, he didn't find the energy to change before he collapsed in his bed. His covers were thrown into the corner of his bed. George felt his ribs and pelvis bones as he ran a hand across his stomach. His skin was cold to the touch and shivered under his even colder finger tips. He found himself unable to care if he froze on the spot.

Cold. His skin, his clothes, his fingertips- all cold. He found himself unable to care about anything- anyone. Cold. The probably dark Saturday outside, the grey clouds that probably rolled in as he laid still. Cold. The thoughts telling him to abandoned everything sounded nice right then, they too were cold.

But what about... him? The one who had been so kind. The one who was there for George. He had been such a good friend. The time they spent together just a few days prior filled George with warmth. But only for a few short moments before the coldness rushed back. Yeah? And where is he now? And there went his brain. Off to war it went.

But I shouldn't get attached. He's just being kind. I can't rely on him like he'll always be there. It's unfair. Don't get attached. Don't use him as your safety blanket. You dont need him.

But he literally said he was sent down for you, George. He doesn't care. He would be here for you if he was. Cut him off. Forget about him. Ruin the relationship- ruin the friendship.

But what if he's just busy...?

George scoffed. Doing what? Floating around town. You're so stupid. He hated that the cold side always won. His body shook until his teeth began to chatter slightly. He was always cold. George hated when there was a war going on inside his head. His skin always paid for it.

Using his arm, which was very sore, he pushed himself upright. His legs swung over the edge and he trudged through the mess on his floor until he reached the clothes. It was more of a pile that sat at the bottom of his wardrobe. He sorted through until he picked a clean pair of black oversized sweats. At some point they had fit. He winced each time fabric rubbed against his raw forearms. He gave up mid-search for a clean shirt before moving back to the bathroom. Blood still gathered in dry puddles on the floor and in the sink. Towels were tossed around everywhere, some damp with water, some stained with once crimson liquid. The blade was still open on the counter, but not for long after George swiped it into the drawer. He tore the bottom cupboard apart in search for bandage wrap. Once it was found, he lathered his forearm in coconut oil, just as a hope they would disappear. But they temporarily would with the pale, well matched bandage.

He walked out to find his hoodie right ouside the door. He pulled it on and wandered out into the living room. His eyes immediately caught on the rose sketched on the wall. The lump in his throat appeared but no tears came. George sat on the couch, just beside the rose where he had the day it was drawn. Even with as much as he tried to push it away, the feeling always came back like a boomerang. He missed Dream in an uncontrollable amount. But the anger backed behind it in an undeniable amount. He didn't want to be angry, he didn't want to be sad. He didn't want to be confused. But with the ugly mosaic of feelings building up, the wall was sure to break at any moment. But until then, he sat on his couch, vision blury, unblinking, and unfocused staring at nothing in particular.

In this state, time was irrelevant. It passed either at snail pace or rapidly. In this state, thoughts came and went in no order, no form. They came cluttered and were irrelevant. Typically, George couldn't tell you what he was thinking about because not even he himself knew. And in this state, he seemed to float away to another universe. He was physically here, but he was mentally far- so far away.