Connor awoke abruptly in a pool of sweat at 6:27 a.m., exactly 3 minutes before his alarm clock could make that dreadful sound that announced the arrival of another day. “Damn nightmares.” He rubbed his eyes, groaning.
He wishes he could stay in bed the entire day, if not the entire week, but he knows he must to get up. Get out of his apartment for the first time in two months.
He's worn out. His head hurts and his limbs are sluggish; even pushing the blankets aside seems difficult. I promised Aaron I’ll come today; he's reasoning. Aaron has been there for him in all of his difficult times, including this one, and he cannot break his promise. He pushed his palms into his eyes until he saw black dots, then slowly rolled out of bed.
Slowly, he draws the curtains back, allowing the warm sunlight to flood his small apartment. He allows himself a brief glimpse of the bustling street below, hoping that it would prepare his mind for the chaos that awaits him outside. He hasn't left his place in nearly two months. Two fucking months. He shivers at the thought of leaving his safe apartment, but he couldn't let Aaron down. He can't break his promise. He pushes his palms into his eyes until he sees black dots, then slowly rolls out of bed.
People gave him time to figure things out, perhaps too much time, and yet... he was nervous and unprepared to face the realities of the outside world. He's not sure if going back to those places from his ‘old life’ would be healthy for him; he’s not sure if he could face them without losing his mind. Again.
He takes a deep breath and steps into his bathroom to wash his face, the cool water soothing his crippling anxiety, but the reflection he sees in the mirror is unrecognisable. He'ss paler and thinner. His once athletic frame has crumpled to skin and bones with only a few muscles holding him together, and his eyes are two dark circles staring out with weariness, the bright blue colour terrifyingly dim. He shakes his head, attempting to clear the awful sight from his mind before turning away from the mirror to get dressed.
He's now standing in front of his apartment door, brushing off phantom dust from his jacket. With a trembling hand, he clutches the doorknob, his hand wrapped so tightly around it that his nails are digging into his palm. For new beginnings, he thinks, not turning the knob.
Suddenly, breathing is hard. Really hard.
Blood pounding in his ears. Heart thudding in his chest. “What's wrong with me?” He wheezes. How can I go outside? How can I talk and smile and laugh with people as if nothing is wrong? As if life can just simply go on?
He leanes on the door, his head pressing against it. His mouth feels dry, and a strange lump of pain is rising in his throat. “Pull yourself together,” he whisperes to himself, “you can do it, you can do it.”
Calm down, it's ok. It's safe outside. Nothing bad will happen.
He inhales and exhales a shaky breath, then another, and another, and another; quieting his racing thoughts that plague his mind.
He inhales and exhales,
Inhales and exhales,
and yank open the door.
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