so I realised that I have been negligent

Haven't posted anything for quite some time, I believe. If the last post's in the last month, then it's time to move my ass and post something else.

So here's a fic-thing. This is maybe what my drunken ramblings would look like if I were drunk. Which I'm not. Drunk, I mean. Idk.

...

It's cold. He likes the cold. Well, not really, not quite. He isn't sure if he likes it, or the warmth that seems so much more intense in the midst of it. He likes comfort, the assurance that there is something left for him.

It used to be that he'd press his soft, thick blankets to his chest, soaking in the warmth and trying to somehow push the downy feathers through his ribcage, all the way through his spine. There was a hollow aching pain somewhere inside. The sort that felt like a black void. The blankets helped.

But he'd thrown the well-worn blankets away a few years ago. In a fit of self-loathing, he'd decided that he didn't deserve anything like that. So now he sleeps alone with a thin barely-blanket over his knees.

He'd turn the a/c punishingly low each night, shivering miserably and squirming when the cold wind blew over his skin. He doesn't know why he does that. There's no reason for it, really. He hates himself for throwing away the blankets, so he tries to freeze himself; he hates himself for cold-acid air, so he doesn't buy any more blankets. It's just a childish, self-obsessed game of give and take.

He hates himself for that too. A deep, swirling pit of confused disgust.

And he hates that too, because it all makes no sense. Life has been good to him. Upper middle-class, two nice parents - a complete family with about enough money to afford a car and a large apartment. What else could he ask for?

But everything was gentle in its mediocrity. It was like body temperature bathwater - good enough for anyone to use, but barely there and not enough. Not much of anything at all.

That sums up his entire life. Barely there and not enough. There might have been something more, but normalcy has spoiled him, rotted him from the inside-out, outside-in. As he breathes in the frigid poison air each night, falling asleep to the sound of his rattling bones, he scratches at his arms. Digs into the skin cell by cell. Gouges out thin milk-trails of white, invisible in the darkness. Outside-in, inside-out.

Still normal. The tracks fade before he's even fully asleep. He'll never pick up a razor. Never stick a finger down his throat. No matter how pervasive his self-loathing, he'll never make a single cut. That's overboard. That's overnormal. That's not allowed.

Instead he'll turn down the the a/c even further, pinch his freezing toes with his freezing fingers, rot his soul and claw out his eyes.

He's crying. Life's been good to him. He has no right to cry.

...

I think that was about 450 words.