04-08-2018, 06:42 AM
[align=center][div style="width: 500px; text-align: justify; font-family: helvetica; font-size: 9pt; line-height: 1.4;"]He couldn't clear his head  that was how all of this had started. Usually it didn't take this much, just a few minutes alone with the cold air to make his thoughts come a little easier, but this time it seems as if they want to stay tangled. He tries to breathe through the confusing mess and only gets something of a whine from his own throat, and god, Theo knows anxiety, but not like this. This  this is trying to count grains of salt, or guess about the number of fish in a school, like trying to win one of those impossible carnival games. This was trying to make sense of things he couldn't understand, so a few minutes of fresh air had turned into a walk, and now Theseus isn't entirely sure that things will ever go back to the way they were before.
His mouth tastes of copper and it takes him a long time to remember why. It's dry on his tongue and down his throat, but he swallows through it with a gag, tongue running over the backs of his teeth. Two, four, eight, sixteen on top, bloody but intact. Seventeen, twenty-five, thirty-two. He's not sure why he's bothering with that right now, with the way that he feels jostled and nauseous and out of it. It's comforting, maybe. He feels like he could vomit, but there's nothing in his stomach. His mind searches for the last time he ate even though he can't remember what feels like days  the last thing he remembers is worlds away, and he tries to think of it in pieces, but everything that should make him feel uncomfortably fuzzy and sharp with want now tastes like batteries and blood. The memory makes him sick and then it's fading again.
wip because i'm REWRITING
His mouth tastes of copper and it takes him a long time to remember why. It's dry on his tongue and down his throat, but he swallows through it with a gag, tongue running over the backs of his teeth. Two, four, eight, sixteen on top, bloody but intact. Seventeen, twenty-five, thirty-two. He's not sure why he's bothering with that right now, with the way that he feels jostled and nauseous and out of it. It's comforting, maybe. He feels like he could vomit, but there's nothing in his stomach. His mind searches for the last time he ate even though he can't remember what feels like days  the last thing he remembers is worlds away, and he tries to think of it in pieces, but everything that should make him feel uncomfortably fuzzy and sharp with want now tastes like batteries and blood. The memory makes him sick and then it's fading again.
wip because i'm REWRITING
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THERE IS NOTHING MORE BEAUTIFUL THAN BEING DESPERATE
｢ AND THERE IS NOTHING MORE RISKY THAN PRETENDING NOT TO CARE. | PINTEREST. ｣