[for Homestead residents]
He'd woken up hung over and alone, rolled over to the strangely cold side of the bed, and wondered why he was still wearing his clothes from last night, his fake leg, his one shoe. He managed to change his shirt, before the lift and pull of the chain around his neck reminded him--Gene's tags clapping back against his chest and his own in his trouser pockets--and he'd pulled them out, stared at them for as long as the grit of his eyes and pounding of his head would allow.
Dropped them on a chair and gone back to bed, still wearing the leg, the shoe, the trousers. He could smell coffee and hear water, hear people, but he felt dried out and stupid, so stupid, and not much else besides. After another few hours of sleep, he woke up angry, teeth clenched to form a whole new headache; he picked at the unfairness of it, went over little hurts to distract from the larger one, came up with half a dozen points to validate his transgression, as if proving Gene wrong in some way would bring him back, undo what had happened.
He managed to get the shoe and leg off before falling asleep again, and woke up as the sun was going down, insides in hungry knots but no will to put himself back together and do anything about it. He didn't want to be right, he thought clearly, maybe for the first time--he just wanted Gene to come back. Still too dried out to cry over it, he slept fitfully through another night, slipping down the hall to the toilet as quietly as he could with a crutch, while the others slept. He nearly went to check on the dogs, but wasn't sure what he'd do with Dee when he got there, and went just as quietly back to his room, laid there staring at the door connecting it to Gene's until he fell asleep.
When he wakes up the next day, it's all at once, head clear and no confusion about the space next to him. His tags are still on the chair and there's a crease on his cheek from the sheets, and everything from his excuses to getting out of bed seem no more important than the red, stinging mark. He made his fucking bed, and here he is, lying in it.
Dropped them on a chair and gone back to bed, still wearing the leg, the shoe, the trousers. He could smell coffee and hear water, hear people, but he felt dried out and stupid, so stupid, and not much else besides. After another few hours of sleep, he woke up angry, teeth clenched to form a whole new headache; he picked at the unfairness of it, went over little hurts to distract from the larger one, came up with half a dozen points to validate his transgression, as if proving Gene wrong in some way would bring him back, undo what had happened.
He managed to get the shoe and leg off before falling asleep again, and woke up as the sun was going down, insides in hungry knots but no will to put himself back together and do anything about it. He didn't want to be right, he thought clearly, maybe for the first time--he just wanted Gene to come back. Still too dried out to cry over it, he slept fitfully through another night, slipping down the hall to the toilet as quietly as he could with a crutch, while the others slept. He nearly went to check on the dogs, but wasn't sure what he'd do with Dee when he got there, and went just as quietly back to his room, laid there staring at the door connecting it to Gene's until he fell asleep.
When he wakes up the next day, it's all at once, head clear and no confusion about the space next to him. His tags are still on the chair and there's a crease on his cheek from the sheets, and everything from his excuses to getting out of bed seem no more important than the red, stinging mark. He made his fucking bed, and here he is, lying in it.