RUSH

Ch. 28: Traces

TW: Mentions of self-injurious behavior (eating disorders). Proceed at your own risk.

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-Bennett-

I could feel the restlessness deep under my flesh, scratching at my skin like a frantic varmint vying for freedom. The more I waited, the more maddening it all felt, my tired eyes boring into the clock nailed above the break room's wall as I waited for the time to pass. I was a rotting husk of complaints and indecisiveness, and the mere idea of readily drowning in my own inner-turmoil felt so familiar, yet so utterly exhausting.

I didn't want it.

Not tonight. And perhaps not for as long as I had the will to outrun my own thoughts.

My tense body surged forward on its own, searching for some form of release. Anything to escape the returning rancor. I barged into the staff's locker room, hurriedly changing out of my work clothes and grabbing my water bottle before slamming the metal door shut. I released a shaky breath, avoiding a co-worker's curious frown. He just frowned up at me while packing up for the day, tilting his head.

"You good?" he asked, though I couldn't even recall his name in that moment.

I nodded my head, waving goodbye before heading back out.

Then, I strolled past the main weight room, genuinely considering stepping inside before quickly reconsidering it. There was still a dozen or so people dispersed across the room; the sound of clinking metal was quieter, but still obnoxiously prevalent. And so, I turned and headed towards the secondary weight room near the back of the gym which held the leftover shit. It was a bit out of the way and all the shiny new equipment were nowhere in sight, proudly displayed in our main rooms, but it was also peacefully barren.

I let out a sigh of relief when I didn't spot anyone inside, stretching my arms as I went. "Fucking finally," I muttered.

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I knew I was overdoing it long before my body gave out. It had only been a matter of time.

I shut my eyes tightly, my body voicing its exhaustion through deep, ragged breaths. I coughed into my arm while leaning against the far-back wall of the weight room, grimacing at the bitter, metallic taste developing in the back of my throat. Just a few mediocre sets and I was already such a lethargic mess, my body refusing to move from the spot I had stumbled back into.

I'd only gone through half of my usual workout, but I already felt nauseous as shit all the same. My legs were aching as well, but it felt too early to throw in the towel. I should be used to this much by now, right? I should be able to do more than this, and not have to merely drag my exhausted body through the motions.

So, why did it feel like hell?

"Get your shit together," I mumbled under my breath, groaning out in frustration when the nausea didn't go away. The room was still spinning, and my eyes could barely focus past the white spots clouding my line of sight. I glared at my water bottle from where it sat beside the equipment, mocking me with its sheer distance.

How could I be doing worse than last time?

Time was passing by so slowly, almost freezing at points, as I pathetically propped myself up against the wall. I was still just as restless, though the acrid frustration had boiled down into a bizarre wave of disorientation. I clenched my jaw, trying to force myself to take a step forward before helplessly stumbling back.