another revealed truth

time goes by so slowly

trigger warnings listed in opening author's note

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karl doesn't think he wakes up, but his eyes open after an indescribable time of being shut and he feels some essence of consciousness enter his thoughts. he feels drowsy and heavy and horrible, and he wants to finally fall asleep and stay asleep, forever.

he doesn't know the time or date and he isn't sure if he wants to know but he rolls over to face his bedside cabinet anyway. the sight he's met with is worrying, piles of dirty dishes and wrappers scattering both his cabinet and the floor around his bed.

it's made significantly worse by the fact that he can't even remember the last time he ate, so the plates are old. he might've eaten last night, actually, but he doesn't remember and time just seems to blur into one big jumbled cloud so he doesn't care to try and work it out.

he's hungry though, and he really wants to eat, and the only thing stopping him is his exhaustion. that, and the fact he feels almost scared to open his mouth.

karl has never had eating problems, in the sense of an eating disorder, but his food intake has always unintentionally been slightly affected by other factors.

he doesn't think he's made a single sound since everyone left for winter break, and he mourns to think about how his throat will ache whenever he gets back the urge to talk - if he ever does. though he doubts it'll hurt more than it did after years of disuse, when a single word felt like his vocal cords were being scratched out with claws.

he remembers the fear he'd felt then, not just because of the pain but because of the shock of his voice sounding different to how it had before. he didn't feel like himself, much like now.

karl thinks, despite the nightmares, that the stench is the main reason he can't sleep. something is mouldy, for sure, and the scent of it is making him queasy. that, combined with his own stink of bo and dirtiness, makes it difficult for him to focus on trying to rest.

he considered going to sleep on the couch, and staying there for a few days until he had the energy to clean his room up, but he's too worried that he'd make a mess of the lounge too and upset george whenever he returns.

the thought of his friend's return prompts karl to check his phone for the date, wondering how much longer he'd be alone for.

he's naked in bed, because all of his clothes are dirty and he has no motivation to wash them, and he has to divert his gaze as he reaches out so he isn't forced to see the dried blood and fresh cuts all over his wrists.

it's safe to say he hasn't been doing well alone.

he checks his phone to see it's just passed midnight on december 24th, christmas eve, and that fact makes him feel physically sick with sadness. even growing up in care, he remembers looking forward to christmas, and the thought of little him seeing him now makes tears prick in his eyes.

he's got a lot of missed messages, mainly from george, schlatt, and his therapist, but also a few from dream.

karl hadn't bothered reaching out to schlatt about christmas, because he had just assumed that the brunette man would be too busy and wouldn't want to see him, so he's intrigued to see what his father-figure might've said.

he finds that those are the only messages he cares to read, as he clicks on the man's name.

karl is surprised that his face id is still working even with his sunken-in face and dark bags. he doesn't feel like himself, but he supposes it's promising that he at least still looks the same.

the messages don't even fully load in before karl's phone fades to black, and he stares at the screen for a moment before pressing down on the power button.

the no-charge symbol makes the brunette burst into tears. though, of course, they're silent.

he drops his phone to the floor without the thought to plug it in and rolls over onto his opposite side, pressing his face into the pillow and not caring about how dirty the pillowcase probably is.

the urge to vomit grows with his silent cries, each one making his throat go tight and horrible, though he knows he can't let himself throw up. if he is sick, he'll have to swallow it, because he knows he can't clean right now and sleeping in a bed with vomit is too far, even for him.

he curls in on himself, wanting to let himself cry but refusing to make any sound or let his lips part. the urge for him to stay quiet hasn't been this strong in years and he despises it.

this isn't him.

he feels like the nine-year-old boy getting hit for the first time when he answered back at the dining table - lost and surprised and aching in pain, desperate for an escape that he isn't going to find.

or the ten-year-old getting locked in his room for twenty-four hours because he refused to talk back when he was spoken to. he's trapped and terrified and he's counting down the hours until he can leave but he doesn't know what he's meant to be counting to.

or the eleven-year-old being bullied at school, unable to stick up for himself. he's helpless and alone and spending his nights silently asking the universe what he did to deserve this, wondering why he's not good enough, begging to know what he did that was so wrong.

or the twelve-year-old, feeling tricked by the relief of returning to the care home, just to be scolded for self-harming and refusing to talk to anyone. he's older now, but he still lies himself into believing 'just one more'.

or the hopeless thirteen-year-old with a new dad and a new school and new peers and a new therapist but he still can't talk. he feels the lump in his throat, and the want to try, and the strangling inability to just choke out a few words. he feels like a disappointment to a dad that isn't even his own.

karl wants to feel like the fourteen-year-old who's just found out that the lonely british kid is learning sign language so they can talk to each other. he craves the hope that he felt then, seeing a world where things could be good.

or the fifteen-year-old who had his first sleepover away from home. he misses when that was a big achievement, whereas now it seems like nothing he does is ever impressive.

or the sixteen-year-old who went weeks without staying silent, who finally felt heard. not talking then wasn't so bad, because he always knew it would pass. it felt like a cloud, rather than a hurricane.

or the seventeen-year-old who has just been accepted into his dream college with his best friend, planning how they'll spend their days. he misses the motivation he had when he and george would stay up at night, talking about the future and discussing the things they would do to help each other on bad days.

he hates being the silent eighteen-year-old, alone on christmas eve.

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shorter chapter because it's so hard to get an impressive word count out of a chapter where nothing really happens!

i love you all forever

-kit