Tied Down.

Miracles and let downs.

Baths are really nice things. I don't take them a lot apart from when I take a visit to Lush, but even then I rarely use the bath bombs and Phil just ends up by using it.
I don't mind though.

That's the thing. Even though this bath is nice and calming for a while, I can't help but to continue thinking about Phil.

I'm here taking a bath whilst he's fighting for his life.
Some caring person I am.

It's gone quiet in the room where Pj and Chris are, probably gone to sleep.
It's strange, everything feels weird and with my head being in a constant spin, it's difficult to keep a straight mind.
Suppose that goes well with my sexuality...

I sink down into the warm water, the bubbles tickling my chin and providing a constant string of fizzes in my ears.
I place my hands on my chest but flinch when I feel my ribs.
Immediately I sit up. Wrong move.

A groan runs out my mouth as I whimper into my hands. A head rush sending pulses of pain against my brain, my eyes crossing over so that I most likely look like a chameleon.
I hate this so much.

After my head clears a little I move the bubbles that are keeping my modesty right now.
I stare down at my chest, it's difficult to see but it's also clear as to what I'm seeing.
My ribs are stuck out against my chest, like stretched skin over a drum, and as I glaze my hands over each one I also notice how thin my fingers are.

I don't want to see what I look like. I'm guessing it's a mix of death and depression.
I don't want to think about that word.
'Depression'.
What if Phil dies? What if he doesn't make it?
I wouldn't cope. I can't cope.

My eyelids clamp down and I breathe out, composing myself before taking the shampoo and rubbing it through my hair.
The fact that I'm already slightly clean makes me feel that three percent better.

I wash it out and scrub myself with a white flannel, using mint shower gel which isn't half as good as the strawberries and cream one that Phil gets.

I don't want to bother Pj so I hold the side of the bath and push myself up. My body is still so weak.
My legs wobble and my head spins.

'Keep breathing, Dan.'

One foot is over and then another. I reach for the towel by the door but as I do I walk past the mirror and holy fuck.

I don't look like 'me' anymore. If a subscriber spotted me out on the streets they would most defiantly not recognise me.
Dark circles cape under my eyes and my cheeks are hollow like a plank, my collar bones that were already discusting are now more prominent. My legs aren't that effected, it's more my ribs.
I've never been skinny and I've never been fat, but I always hated how I looked. Now I realise that I was lucky with that body and I don't even want to imagine what was going through Pj's mind when he looked at me.

I notice my clothes just outside the bathroom door, I carefully change and head over to the bed to lie down.
I'm sure I can get away with not having to wear those stupid hospital gowns.

Chris and Pj are sleeping in the corner, both in each other's arms.
I grip onto the blanket and choke into the pillow. A single tear runs down my cheek and before I know it I'm full out crying, until I drift off to sleep.

-----------------

"You're crazy."

"That is incorrect and a false deduction Watson."

"Are you kidding me? You're worse than your brother."

"Excuse me? My brother is far more poor acting that me. He's too lonely."