when the sun goes black (old- will probably revise)

7

"Frank?"

He snapped to attention. A fellow scarecrow who's name he didn't return the favor of knowing was leaning over the table, waving a hand in front of his eyes. A look of concern formed on his face and he tilted his head. "Is everything alright? You look about ready to fall asleep in your breakfast!" He chuckled.

Frank shook his head dismissively. "No, no, I'm fine." He murmured. "Just a little tired today."

"Oh. Did you get your 8 hours?"

Not even 1. Get out of my face. "...No, not quite. I've had a lot on my plate lately."

Luckily for Frank, the 8-hour rule wasn't enforced so harshly on them. The physical and mental stressors of being a BL/IND employee could get in the way of an ideal schedule. They wouldn't be punished as long as it wasn't often and didn't seem to be on purpose.

"Well then, why don't you go rest? I'll let Melinda know that you aren't feeling your best. I'm sure she'll understand." He offered. "Sleep is important, especially for your performance."

Frank nodded. That day was supposed to be group training; considering he'd barely made it through this conversation without snapping, Frank wasn't sure how much he could take. "Yes, if you could. Thank you."

He smiled. "Sure thing. Finish your breakfast and head on back to your room. Have a better day!" He chirped, before standing up and leaving.

"Yeah, whatever." He grumbled back under his breath.

It'd been three days now. This was the longest he had been without Ritalin since his teenage years, which he barely remembered. Honestly, his childhood felt like something that'd never happened. His teenage self was a person he'd wanted to forget, villainized constantly- he'd nearly gone down a path of no return, but he'd redeemed himself and that was wonderful and everyone was so proud.

Of course, if he ever started to resemble the person he'd been, they'd hate him all over again. And here he was, doing just that.

Frank was accustomed to a high dosage, and suddenly quitting was starting to rear the ugly head of its complications.

He was easily agitated where he was usually indifferent. His brain felt fuzzy, his thoughts directionless and scattered, and he got headaches that were so painful he could hardly stand. He was drowsy one second and bursting with energy the next. He'd laughed the day before. A genuine laugh. Not just a polite chuckle where appropriate, the kind that hurts your ribs and leaves you out of breath. Someone had dropped their plate during dinner and it erupted out of nowhere- he had to bite down on his sleeve to stifle it so no one would look at him strangely.

Frank continued to leave food with his prisoner but refused to engage. After the first few times, Party stopped trying to hold a conversation. Maybe word of their discussions had somehow made it to his superiors, and he was on the hook for it. In reality, Frank just couldn't be around him, trying to figure out what course of action to take while juggling with an influx of symptoms.

That was the thing. He didn't feel that different. At least, not emotionally. His anxiety and doubt were still just as present. His entire life, Frank had felt like there were two of him in his head. There was him- the rational side that saw reality and interpreted it clearly and logically, that could evaluate situations objectively and decide what to do.

Then there was a version that was scared of its own shadow, spouting doubt and fear and lies, graphic descriptions of worst-case scenarios, trying to get him to question everything. He constantly had to talk the other down, reassuring his own self that he would be okay- all in the face of things no one else even batted an eye at. Every single day, the dialogue in his head never stopped.