Insomniac

Chapter 4: Home Pt 2

Shadows caress his face like ghosts, engulfing him and the room in their totality. Sean tries to ignore them, staring blankly at the TV screen as it played some movie, reminding himself quietly that it wasn't real. That they were never real, just his mind playing tricks on him in the dead of night. "C'mon Jackaboy, they're nothing more than just some shadows."

But it doesn't change a thing; it doesn't change that those shadows were there regardless of how real or non-real they were and that they were only there at all because of his insomnia.

Rubbing his eyes with the palms of his hands, he tries to count up -- 1...2....3....-- but even as he reaches 20 he's no closer to sleep than he was at 1. God why can't he just sleep? Why did his brain have to be so ineffective at one of its most basic jobs? If Robin wasn't there, he'd probably have paced the length of the house by now. Back and forth, back and forth, just to see if maybe he could pass out somewhere along the way. But doing that would definitely wake up Robin, which would either annoy him or concern him and neither of those were appealing.

So he sits there for who knows how long, until he's sure it's well past midnight and he can no longer sit still with those lingering shadows. It's then that he decides that, if he's going to be up, that he could at least take care of his stitches (as much as he trusts Robin, the thought of him helping with that, even touching them, made his breathing shudder with unrestrained and unexpected anxiety, so it was only right if he did it when Robin wasn't up or around).

Body like lead, he pushes off the couch and starts walking towards the bathroom, heavy and dragging. If anyone could see him right now, he's sure he'd look like a zombie which in of itself was sort of an amusing thought. As zombie-like as he probably looked, at least he didn't have a craving for human flesh.

God did he wish someone was up so he could share that thought. As it was, all there was were those shadows enveloping the hall and clinging to his heels.

Quietly he reminds himself again that they're not real when he shudders at another touch. Relief only washes over him though when he enters the bathroom and flicks on the light, banishing the shadows from him, breathing easing up a little.

When he reaches the sink he avoids looking at the mirror and works on unfurling the gauze. They fall in rivlets, coiling up in the sink and then again in the trash when he throws them away. He then works on peeling his shirt off, grimacing as pain stabs his shoulders and chest as he raises his arms above his head. Somehow he still manages without anything more than a few grunts. He then abandons it in the corner after.

He doesn't take a moment or even stop when all the gauze is off his chest, still doesn't let himself look in the mirror as he flicks on the faucet and cool water fills the sink. Bubbles erupt when he sprinkles soap in.

Carefully he washes around the stitches using the soapy water and a washcloth, keeping in mind about what his doctor had said about not rubbing them directly. It's a mindless process that he eases into easily -- he snickers to himself as it only furthers his earlier zombie comparison -- and it's even therapeutic in a way as he lets his brain just shut off. There's nothing to think about, nothing to even say, nothing to do but this. The shadows, the lack of sleep, and the time all slip from his mind and the rest of the house just falls away. He's the only one here and the only room that was left was just the bathroom. Just. The bathroom.

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