he laid on his bed, his mind playing the scene on repeat. Frame by frame, word by word, it unfolded. Only to rewind at hyper speed at the end. Then, it repeats itself.

he laid there, motionless. Vulnerable. The sorrow perpetuating through him. why did it always boil down to this. "i hate them." he muttered, his mind still endlessly looping the scene.

the grief had physically manifested into stings on his body. it had always been the case whenever he is overwhelmed by intense emotions. he intuitively started scratching, harder with each swipe of his hand till it ached. Somehow, that alleviated the need for him to grab a blade n stab himself. Somehow, he cooled down a little bit more. Somehow, the pictures in his head were no longer anything but pictures.

he finally fell asleep, to that sharp yet familiar iron odour.

"respite" he whispered

Labels: the innocent is always the most hurt