𝐋'𝐀𝐏𝐏𝐄𝐋 𝐃𝐔 𝐕𝐈𝐃𝐄 / 𝐍𝐈𝐆𝐇𝐓 𝐋𝐎𝐕𝐄𝐋𝐋

⋆ 𝐟𝐢𝐯𝐞 ⋆

⋆ ☬ ⋆

chapter five
「 shermar 」

for days, the woman's face haunted him, plastered behind his eyelids every time he blinked. she kept him awake, day and night, a ghost lingering just out of reach. shermar couldn't sleep, petrified that if he closed his eyes for too long, she'd somehow cease to exist. he sat wired and jittery on the cold steps of his patio; a half finished hot chocolate had gone stale beside him, its whipped cream melted into an unappetizing grey film. the wind bit at his skin, though he barely felt it. his knuckles, nose, and collarbones were flushed a deep red as his body fought to stay warm. a raw chill simmered under his skin, growing more painful the longer it lingered.

the sun rose over the horizon, casting pink and golden hues across his backyard. he squinted at the tree line, watching the morning light chase away the shadows. there wasn't a single chirp from the birds perched on the banister. the silence didn't bring any peace— it only gave his mind more room to run in wild circles. much like everything else, time had slipped away from him. he couldn't recall when he had gone outside or why, just that the sky had been a starless void, perfect for projecting his fantasies unobstructed.

his body ached with exhaustion, but his mind refused to let him rest. her image blurred against the brightening sky, fading before he knew it. a tightness gathered in his chest, making it difficult to breathe.

"fuck." his voice barely cut through the stillness, the sound foreign to him. he blinked, desperate to hold onto her. stress pulled tighter on his muscles, a sharp pain jabbing into his right side, jolting him out of his haze.

shermar forced himself up, gathering his mug and the blanket he hadn't been using. he shuffled inside, slamming the sliding door behind him. the silence in the house was thick and suffocating, pressing into his ribs firmly. his hot chocolate sloshed when he slid across on the counter, alongside the growing pile of dishes. the blanket found its way to the floor by the washing machine.

he hadn't left the house in almost a week, needing space to calm his nerves, to allow his medication to start working again. but he was struggling to take the pills, to draw, to write, to record. he couldn't do anything but wait for the cold to burn at his flesh.

his house mirrored his mind— disordered, fraying at the seams. dishes stacked in the sink and laundry scattered haphazardly across the floor. his reality mimicked sand slipping through his fingers. how was he expected to run the largest crime syndicate in canada when he couldn't keep his home clean.

his body moved mechanically, scrubbing plates and running laundry as if that would fix the chaos. the dishwasher hummed too loudly. the washing machine creaked as he shoved in an unsorted load. the cleaning was mindless—futile. he went through the motions, but nothing seemed to change.

he trudged upstairs, intending to tackle more clutter, but halfway through gathering shoes and jackets, the task became overwhelming. he leaned against the banister, out of breath from the sheer effort of trying.

his bedroom was a wreck- the bed was a mess of unmade sheets, the unfinished frame for his mattress propped against the wall, clothes littering the floor. the irritation boiling in his blood pierced at his temple until he wanted to rip his hair out.

shermar sighed, rubbing at the dull throbbing.

he tried his best to organize what he could. while cleaning his bedside table, his fingers brushed over a wrinkled piece of paper. his hand trembled as he lifted the ruined artwork, the colors distorted and pooling into the velveteen water scars. she stared back at him with the half-lidded eyes of a serpent, lips curled into a knowing smirk. her presence slithered into his mind with ease, holding his thoughts hostage.