Comfortably Numb

Empty Spaces

Richard Wright wryly stared at his reflection in the dirty, chipped mirror of his small, messy bathroom. There were dark circles and bags under his eyes. He was also growing a beard. His skin was paler than usual, his hair was thinning, and his body was more bony than before. Pain struck through his arms, legs, and chest. He gripped the sink's handle bar and gritted his teeth to cope with the jab of discomfort. He hardly ate anything in weeks and was gradually becoming malnourished.

Moving a single muscle in his own body hurt immensely. He clicked opened the medicine cabinet with a shaky hand, grabbing the bottles of pills for him to take. One of them was supplements, one of them was vitamins, and one of them was sleeping pills. The vitamins and supplements were for him to cope with his refusal of eating and to not be as disheveled and out of order as one would expect. The sleeping pills were to make sure he wouldn't go into an emotional fit induced from a sleep-deprived hallucination, to sleep a bit more soundly.

He gently grabbed a Dixie cup and filled it with water and dowsed the supplements and vitamins, gulping them, while wincing in pain. His eyes darted to the sleeping pills. He could overdose any time, but the sanctuary kept a close eye on him, preventing him to do anything harmful to himself. He took two sleeping pills, the amount prescribed to him, and quickly popped them into his mouth, washing them down with the remaining bit of water left in the paper cup. Rick was too cowardly to end his life. All he wanted to do was sleep.

There would be days where he would never get up from his bed, he would just stay up and stare at the ceiling, absentmindedly talking to himself or quietly crying for someone, someone that was extremely close to him. He would hardly ever blink, and his eyes were always glued to the ceiling, never moving a single muscle.

Sometimes he felt his ears ring and skin crawl. Sometimes he felt himself "shrink" and have the absence of light overcome him. His fits of dissociation weren't acknowledged by the authorities, but were noticed by Syd Barrett, the ruler of the sanctuary, for he knew that he would dissociate in the first place.

To help Rick with those bursts of dissociation, Syd would sometimes come into his bedroom so he could give him advice and allow Rick to vent to him. Rick slowly walked out of the bathroom and and approached his bed. With a mattress made of memory foam and blankets made from the softest of feathers, he considered it more homey than his entire service for Roger Waters, the ruler, or what Rick remarks, the tyrant, of the wasteland.