7 Reasons to Stay DreamNotFound

Day Four

Morning of Day Four

George POV 

Mental health truly is something one can never truly understand. George thought of it similar to weather. He'd been trapped in what felt like eternal thunderstorms, the sky dark with tumbling clouds of blacks and grays. A spark of emerald made the clouds thin, sunlight peeking through to gently caress the earth in warm rays of soft light. He'd never expected the darkness to come back with a vengeance, pouring rain where the earth was already drowned. 

Nausea bundled in George's stomach, rumbling acid up his throat. He'd long since gotten used to the feeling, but this time was strangely worse. His mind was locked on drenched fur and wide, frightened amber eyes. 

Patches would have died if they hadn't been there. Or, to be more honest, if Dream hadn't been there to wrench her from the lake's gluttonous grip and determinedly bring her back from teetering on the edge of death.

George had never been more scared of death than in that moment, and that was the thought that terrified him. How could he feel fear of something he yearned for, that a little voice in his mind always whispered enticingly about? Coaxed him each time he gazed into the glint of a knife, or caught sight of a bottle of painkillers? 

Sure, it wasn't him that had been dying in that moment, it was a helpless cat who fought so desperately to live, but his spine still chilled, his heart raced. All he could think was please don't take her. He wanted to force that eternal darkness he so desperately wanted and chase it away from the weakened animal.

Had death always been something that felt scary? George still remembered his father's death, but he'd been too drowned in grief and guilt to feel fear. This was the first time.

The first time death scared him.

George shivered, gripping his blankets tightly. A lump creeped up his throat, and his chest tightened. An elephant sat over his lungs, a rubber band squeezing his heart. 

The little voices crept back in from the shadows of his mind, quietly whispering dangerous promises, holding out that poisoned apple so tantalizingly. 

No... shut up... just leave me alone

George brought his hands up to his head, gripping the dark hair falling over his ears. His eyes squinted against the heat rising in his throat, the saliva pooling over his tongue.

Suddenly, he couldn't hold it anymore. 

Without a second thought, George flung his blankets down and stumbled to his feet. His skin had barely touched the carpet before he was swinging his door open and sprinting to the bathroom. 

His palm brushed the smooth paint on the bathroom door, shoving it shut behind him. Skidding onto his knees, his palms gripped cold white ceramic. George's arms shook violently as he heaved, his entire stomach turning itself inside out. He wanted to cry at pain burning his throat, the stinging in his nose. He hadn't eaten, so all that really came out was bile and spit. Even so, his stomach seemed determined to make him suffer.

George's vision blurred, and hot tears dripped into the toilet bowl. 

At some point a strong hand appeared on his back, gently rubbing soothing circles. A cold cloth wiped his lips clean. Soft, slender fingers slid under his bangs, cool against his forehead. Those caring fingers slid his bangs up, holding the brown locks out of his eyes. 

Dream

Normally, George would be humiliated for anyone to see him like this. Vulnerable, weak, completely at the mercy of his own body and mind. He'd lash out, yell to get away from him.