behind the glass

the point of no return

I want to live-

Scott gasped for air upon waking up, rolling over to cough. His mouth was dry- dryer than it had ever been after a night of drinking.

What happened last night?

He looked down to find that a shirt had been carelessly thrown onto him at some point. Not only was it backwards, but one of his arms wasn't even in the sleeve. Usually, even when his vision was blurry and the room was spinning around him, he still managed to get dressed before passing out.

Something was wrong.

He pushed himself up with difficulty, a wave of vertigo washing over him as he looked down at the sheets he had been laying on.

There was blood splattered across them, trailing all the way from the pillow down to where he was now sitting. He touched his lips with a trembling hand to find that blood was trailing from his mouth and nose, pulling his hand away to see that blood had dried on his wrists and down his forearms.

What the fuck- He would have muttered to himself if his throat didn't feel like it was on fire. Actually, everything hurt. It was as if his entire body was attacking him.

As he stood up on unstable legs, he let the shirt that he was wearing fall down over his thighs. He wasn't wearing anything else, wishing that he could curl up inside of the shirt and never show his body to another person.

He was in William's house- he figured out that much- but the man himself seemed to be absent. Typically, he would be getting dressed or smoking a cigarette by the window when Scott woke up. William never left Scott alone in the bedroom; he never knew why.

Scott stumbled to the bathroom to clean up, turning on the shower, not caring if it was hot or cold. It ended up being cold, and he stood under the faucet until he realized that he was still wearing the shirt- he probably borrowed it from William- and peeled the wet fabric off of his body, refusing to look down.

His arms and legs stung against the frigid water and he was beginning to feel unstable, his vision darkening. He got down on his knees before he could pass out, though, feeling as his skin bruised against the porcelain.

He stepped out when all of the blood had disappeared from his skin, grabbing a fluffy, white towel to dry off with.

Still dripping with water, he stepped back into the bedroom, picking up the phone on William's nightstand with trembling hands as he searched his brain for the number he wanted to call.

He dialed it in, hoping that he still remembered it correctly, and sat on the bed while the phone rang.

It rang for so long that, for a moment, he feared that no one would pick up.

Then, the phone clicked before he heard a familiar voice on the other end.

"Hello?"

"Hey-" Scott pulled away for a moment to clear his throat. "Hey, Jeremy. It's Scott."

"Scott..." He nearly whispered, trailing off for a few seconds before speaking again. "Where have you been?"

"Remember when you told me that I could call you if I needed anything in the world?"

"I-" Jeremy stammered, continuing hesitantly. "Yeah, I remember."

"Can you come pick me up?"

"Scott," he sighed. There was shuffling on the other end of the line. "Where are you?"

"I'm at Mr. Afton's house."

"You're at-" The shuffling abruptly stopped. "Why?"

"It's a long story." Scott's gaze flickered down to the ashtray on the table. "I came here by myself, and I realized that it was a mistake, so I never went home."