The Altered.

Chapter LXI.

Three days after Miles had killed Ty.

His mood hadn't improved.

If anything, it had worsened. With every morning he woke up, he felt as if the burden on his shoulders gained weight. Feelings welled up inside him and he wished there was a way to get them out that didn't involve tearing down another bookcase. Or crying in a corner, which was a method he'd resorted to despite the fact that it made him feel no better.

He was hungry, but he hadn't eaten any proper food since he'd come home from the store with blood on his hands days ago. He was tired, too, but every time sleep felt close, he woke to another nightmare. He didn't know how, on that first day that he'd killed Ty, he had managed to comfort Aaron just hours later. Wherever the hell he had found that optimism, he wanted it back.

Energy and hope completely depleted, Miles spent his days doing notably less than all of his friends. While they searched books - particularly the one on programming language that Lia had found - and organised resources and made use of their space, Miles would mope about and participate in any activity for a few minutes before leaving for a reason he didn't have. Most of his time was spent either crying or sleeping or thinking. It was messy.

Percy was on the top of a bookshelf again. It seemed to be a habit of his, now, scrabbling onto the tops of shelves with just one hand. He claimed it was for fitness purposes, but Miles guessed it was more to make himself feel better about having to live with just one able hand. Miles hoped, for Percy's sake, that once all of this was over - if it ever was - Percy would get a new prosthetic.

Miles got to his feet from the chair he'd been seated in and started to move towards the shelves. Not near where Percy was perched. Miles felt ill. He was hungry and exhausted and his wounds were still agonising as he moved. And his head - all it did was ache. Aaron was doing his best to take care of Miles' wounds as well as he could, but there wasn't much that could be done for the pain.

Especially the pain in Miles' heart. That wasn't even a physical injury.

Miles didn't actually know where he was going - just that if he didn't get up and do something soon, he'd start overthinking, and that was the last thing that would take his fancy. His current idea of a good distraction was a book, for as much as he disliked reading, he wasn't sure he'd find much of an alternative in this library.

When there was a soft thud behind him, Miles sucked in a sharp breath, already knowing what was coming for him.

"Miles!" Percy picked himself up from where he'd met the floor after jumping from the shelf and hurried to weave his way between shelves and find his way to Miles' side.

Knowing that interaction was inevitable, Miles gave up on his quest to find a book to read and just waited for Percy to get to him.

"Miles," said Percy again when he reached Miles. This time, Miles could detect how Percy's tone was brimming with worry. "You look terrible."

"Thanks, man," Miles retorted, making to turn back around and walk away.

Percy grabbed his sleeve. "No, I'm serious. I haven't seen you eat or get a proper amount of sleep since... since, you know."

Miles slapped Percy's hand away from him, which ended up being a little harsher than he'd intended. He didn't apologise. "That's none of your business." Self-conscious about himself now, Miles heard the hoarseness in his tone, felt his eyelids drooping, noticed how empty his stomach felt.

"It is," Percy said, his words coming out as more of a plea than anything else. "Really. You're going to get sick if you keep it up."

"I'm not your responsibility, Percy." Miles' voice was sharp. "Nor am I anybody else's but my own. I can deal with my own problems."