Clair de Lune

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The morning after the party left a bitter taste in his mouth.

Finn isn't sure about how many hours he has stayed in bed, or whether his stomach can handle food without throwing it up or not; he doesn't know a single thing and, honestly, he doesn't ever care.

In this state of numbness, he gets up from the mattress with the main intention to look for something to eat. But as he takes a step on the floor, a cascade of needles pierce the back of his head, turning it into a cage of pain.

"Fucking hell." He groans, tangling his fingers through his curls in that perpetual wild shape.

He is a mess. There's no need to look at himself in the mirror to understand that his face is an aesthetic disaster: pale, sick and lifeless. His throat is sore and his eyes can't adjust to dim the light filtering through the window.

As he wander around, the room still swirls, and he doesn't question if Violet or Josh are there; he doesn't want to think about Millie and the goddamn hurtful finger print she drew on his cheek. Finn simply doesn't want to give a damn anymore about anything.

The apartment is drenched in darkness and all of the curtains are closed— a bless, really. The sound of the hand clock moving disturbs the emptiness he feels inside, marking the time slowing passing by, the happiness he can't reach and the past he can't leave behind. 

His eyes rolls up to the clock: half past five in the afternoon. He slept fifteen hours, more or less. That was a personal record.

He pours some fresh milk into a bowl of cereals: he needs to eat something to brush off that metallic flavor of external substance in his body even if he's not hungry at all; cocaine and alcohol was a fatal combo.

He sits on the stool, dipping his spoon in the bowl and silently contemplating the silence of his house. A dead nature is the only thing keeping him company and he incredibly enjoys it.

Objects can't ask you questions or hurt you.
Objects can't slap you or tell you they don't love you, for instance.

His heart plays again that sentence like a broken record. "I didn't think and I still don't think I love you."

How fucking dare she being so mean, absolutely not respectful of his feelings.

The memory of that moment is so toxic that takes over all of his brain. The bit of self out control he has goes away. Hunger dissipates fast, too fast, and like that, he throws the spoon away from him, sliding the bowl out of table with a nervous snap and letting it crush on the floor.

He slams his palms on the table, trying to catch a breath and wash away those awful feelings. Goddamn it. Fuck her.

It's providential that Violet makes her way to the kitchen with a lazy walk. She is wrapped around a blue bathrobe, probably Finn's one, long hair damp and cleaned fresh face. She has just taken a shower, it seems.

"Ah, good morning, afternoon or whatever." She sassily greets him, not even sparing him a glance.

"What happened in here?" She asks again, staring at the pieces of ceramic scattered on the floor and a small pool of milk.

"What does it seem? It fell." He spits in the usual passive aggressiveness, passing his two hands on his face with eyes closed and covering the sound of his dragging words.

"Well, clean this shit by your own and do it quickly. You have got to take a flight to Atlanta later this night."

She is about to leave him there, alone, but Finn is not stupid and he senses something is off with her.

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