Insomniac

Chapter 10: Dissociation

Sorry for the AN, but this is pretty important: I'm participating in Nanowrimo, so I won't be able to post during November. I also might not be able to post during December. But the good news is that I'm actually joining Nano to finish pre-writing the final rough draft of Insomniac! So hopefully after that and I polish everything I've written, I'll be bumping up the chapter count from one update per month to twice a month! Anyways, I hope you enjoy!

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Jack doesn't check up on Mark right away.

Even as the phone lay heavily in his hands, he just can't bring himself to call. It was horrid — Mark was a close friend of his, so he really shouldn't be hesitating like this. But even just holding it and staring down made his hands shake and his breath quicken and he was afraid he was going to fall into another panic attack.

No, he didn't want to go through that again. Whether it really was just a panic attack, or just Anti messing with him, or even a mixture of both. He can't, not when it just had faded.

God, Anti really did know just the right way to mess with him, didn't he? Just loved teasing him, making him panic over just one more thing that wasn't real. He knew all the right things to say, knew how to make him paranoid over every little detail.

That was it, wasn't it? All this panic? It could be over nothing, if recent events told him anything. Most of it was smoke and mirrors — nightmares he could wake up from, shaken but okay. Illusions that held no weight. In all likelihood, everything was fine.

It still didn't stop him from staring down at that phone and thinking of all the possible outcomes, though. Worrying that Mark was either injured or...

Jack tosses the phone onto the bed.

No.

He swings his legs over the edge and slowly stands. The journal, laying abandoned on the floor, catches his gaze but he doesn't linger on the content. Instead, he picks it up and sets it down on the nightstand, keeping the cover firmly closed.

This was his limit. Between the events of yesterday, his fitful few hours sleep, and the panic attack, he was left utterly exhausted. It and the stress were pulling him down and he was afraid he was going to drown without something to keep him afloat. Even if that something was a measly cup of coffee.

So, grabbing and slipping the phone into his pocket, he leaves his room and heads for the kitchen.

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Leaning against the counter, Jack wraps his hands around a steaming mug of Irish Coffee. The tendrils of steam rise and curl around him as he drinks deeply, savoring the bitter taste helped only by Bailey's and the whipped cream. It burns a little as it goes down, having added more whiskey than normal, but he can't say he hates it.

It sits oddly in his stomach.

Maybe it wasn't proper to drink alcohol at 5 AM, even if it were just an Irish Coffee, but he just needed... something. Anything with a kick to keep him awake and soothe his frazzled nerves. And this was just the thing.

It wasn't like he was initially planning on adding the liquor anyways. It just sort of happened, with the liquid gleaming at him from its neat place on its rack. And who is he to say no right now, when everything was going to hell regardless of his choice?

If only it was enough for him to get drunk. Then he could forget about this shit at least for a few hours.

But... no. He needed to be aware for this. Even if that awareness was uneasily swirling in the pit of his stomach, tainted with guilt.