Pleuvoir | Eric Coulter

Labing-pito

K a r o l i i n a

Nepenthe is what I'm experiencing right now.

Taking care of Eric whilst he is sleeping takes my mind off things. Things that I scorn. Things that cause me pain. Things that are unbearable to me. I will never say this out loud, but I am thankful for the distraction.

Eric's shirt and vest are somewhere on a chair in the corner, carefully folded. I don't want to remember the tedious and extremely disturbing task of taking his clothes off, but it was necessary. He was twisting and turning and itching, so I had no choice but to take his clothes off. I did it with a decent reason, at least.

Now he is snoring quietly, with me standing near the edge of his bed. I probably look mental, staring at him with my hands deep in my pockets. If someone is to enter Eric's room, they may think I'm trying to murder him or something.

I step back, sighing. It's two in the morning, but I still don't feel the allure of sleep. Where is it when I desperately need it?

I turn to walk out of the apartment. I'm halfway to the door when a groan echoes throughout the silent room, and I stand still when it turns into screaming. I look behind me quickly, seeing Eric trashing in his bed with a distressed look on his face.

Immediately, I walk back to his side, patting his cheeks as an attempt to wake him up. His form wriggles like his bed is on fire, as if he is burning slowly and painfully. I bite my lip. What do I do?

My silent question is unanswered when Eric's eyes open, and even in the dark, I see the blue in his eyes shine brightly. The fear and pain swimming in his cerulean orbs spark something within me, and I am filled with a sudden sadness when I gaze at him.

"A-Are you okay?" I finally ask after how many minutes of quietness.

"How did you get here?" His voice is rough, and I try to ignore the redness of his tired eyes.

"I came with F-Four, and..."

"Get out."

I flinch like I've been hit, and I basically was. His words slice through me and I am left with a gushing wound.

"I-I'm sorry." I stutter out, and without looking at him, I run towards the door.

My hand grasps the doorknob shakily, and I shake even more when his voice rings out in my ears.

"Karoliina," My breath catches in my throat. It is the first time he said my name. "Thank you."

The door clicks when I close it.

∞

E r i c

I never wanted any of this.

The position, the responsibilities, the expectations. I fucking hate it. I hate all of it.

My head is pounding, and not even the two pills in my hand takes the pain away. My eyes are blotchy from crying, my entire self is a mess.

I look at the mirror, swallowing when I see the image it reflected. Pale, sickly skin. Hallowed eyes that look dead. Chapped lips. Messy hair. Growing scruff. My clothes are disarray, some buttons open. My body sags into the sink. 

I take a step back, dragging myself towards the kitchen. The place is bare, not even a single appliance in view. Dusty cupboards. Empty counters. Void shelves. There is nothing here, no sign of living.

I sit on a chair I haven't used in months, leaning back as a wave of pain hits me. My eyes close, my body freezes. I'm still, and that is the exact opposite of what I'm experiencing right now.

The inner turmoil of dark, twisted thoughts. The constant 'what if's' floating around my head. The voices that screamed at me, telling me all the things that I've done. Telling me that I don't deserve what I have now. That I should just cease to exist.

It seems easy, because I myself know that I am a dead man walking.

Alive, but not actually living.

My heart constricts, my throat closes up. I rush to the sink, and soon my apartment is filled with sounds of my vomiting. My stomach lurches. The pain increases. My ears ring. A knock is made on the door.

It is time to pretend again. 

Ephemeral is the right word for the comfort I experienced, if I even experienced it at all. Pain is everlasting for me now. It is never-ending. Tranquility and serenity are the two things that I haven't felt for a long time. I miss feeling it. The emotion of being carefree. Being still. Being worry-free.

That seems impossible. My head is full of sick thoughts. I need a thousand stitches for these unseen injuries.

"Eric, the initiates will be arriving in ten minutes."

The sentence reminds me of the pain I will endure again. Of the mask I will have to wear. I don't want to get near it, but I don't have a choice. I used to, but not anymore.

My life is just an image I created with high, impenetrable walls that guard the real me. It was all fake. A show for everyone.

"Eric."

I grit my teeth, "I'm fucking coming. Stop calling me."

Footsteps shuffle outside my door. I vomit some more. My fingers twitch.

I don't want to train little shitheads today.