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Chronic illness, unbearable conscious.
Darkness, strange white lights, darkness, red.
Red.
Red.
Blood?
Warning.
They say that he was lucky to live, he says that he wishes he had died.
Fault, his or theirs?
They say theirs, he says what everyone thinks- his.
Air. Air. He needs air. Blood, bullet, scream. Where's air? Air. He can't breathe. Air. He is begging them. Air. They shot him. Air. He lived. Air. They shot her. Air. She died.
Morpheus let him slip from his abyss, waking him up.
Pills, where are the fucking pills?
The clock ticked marking 2. He smashed it.
Blood on his hands, glass splitting his flesh.
They say he is fine, he says he'll never be.
Blood on his guitar.
He turned on the light, smashing anything in his was. A fog in his mind.
Pills, pills, he needs them.
A mother knocking on the door, the pills laying on the drawer. His name on the bottle's tag, 'Luke Patterson'.
Blood spilling from her chest.
Pills. He relaxed. Vivid colours traced lines shaping a carousel.
1. One carousel. 1. One free spot. 1. One gets on it. 1. One has to get down. 1. He managed to get on it. 1. She didn't. 1. One alive. 1. One dead.
Blood on his hands.
☆
"Such a perfect day, take it just in case. I'm scared of being okay 'cause all things change."
