Asphyxiation

Prison of Apathy - 14

The structure of the world was inherently predictable in Y/n's mind. It was why he did not care when he arrived home and it was silent; dark. His mom had promised him that she would be there, but she never is. There was no more resentment, no more questions. There was not the urge rip up the sleeves of his blazer, of his shirt, and to —

It was numb now. Y/n stepped over the threshold, into his house, and the atmosphere was too black to see, clearly, the photographs and the decor (much of it, made their own, with dents, scratches, or cracks; time makes it unique). When his mom left, she always ensured to switch every light off as to not needlessly inflate the electricity bill. This could be corrected, easily, from where Y/n stood now. He could reach over and flip the switch on his right. The light hanging above his head in the entranceway would illuminate in a near instantaneous fashion. The image of a dark, still house would recede.

But Y/n does not bother. His eyes had already adjusted. He was exhausted anyway, he barely felt he had the energy to shuffle his feet over the floor. His bag slid off his shoulder and hit the ground by his shoe a second before he collapsed onto the couch in the living room. He doesn't do anything for a long time after this point. He laid, stretched out on his back, deriving no comfort from the position, and he stared at the ceiling. There was nothing of interest there, save for the evidence of a patched-up leak. But the world was shut out, at the very least. Time seemed infinite, captured in this small bubble of nothingness.

Peripherally, Y/n was aware of all he must do. There were assignments he had to complete, exams he had to study for, midterms were approaching rapidly — should he even care? His mom's disappointment in him had stopped mattering years ago. How could it, after so long? Don't they know how time wears even the sting of those wounds away? How time can crush the pain and hurt as it has crushed everything else?

...Until it returns.

But for now, there is no pain in Y/n's chest. No broken throb, no torturous ache of emotional anguish — anguish that couldn't be explained. Anguish that could not be fought with the mind. Anguish as to where there was only one measure of relief and — Y/n didn't notice when he had raised his arm, the limb bisecting his visual field.

He runs his other hand over the underside of it, feeling the curve of his forearm muscle, feeling the slope of his wrist.

What have I done to myself? he wondered with a hot flush overtaking his eyes. The arms dropped and laid listlessly at his side. The display of momentary concern for himself didn't last. The emotion was oppressed, quite rapidly, behind another wave of mind-killing numbness. It didn't matter. No one else would care about these scars either. And if they did, they would not understand. There would be questions — interrogations — Y/n would lose, before anything ever began. It can't... it can't...

(There is no such thing as help, for "help" no longer matters. It would no longer reach him.)

I wish I could do more. I wish I could sit up, stand up, turn on the lights, unpack my schoolbag, study for hours on end, receive better test scores on my midterm — don't they all know I would be better if I could be? — and maybe my mom would smile —

The sentiment died there. What did it matter? If his mom smiled? That would be one moment out of a million. A million in which she did not smile. A million in which she would come home from a late double-shift, exhausted and tiptoe over to Y/n's bedroom doorway, where she would check on him before heading off to sleep herself. A million in which she would not say a word during the rare times they were in the same room together, occupying the same space — and all Y/n ever did was disappoint her and all she ever did was keeping putting work into a career she didn't particularly like so she could bring home the money to support him.