#joaquin.

The violent hum of the air conditioning and soft breathing were the only noises that filled the small, shitty motel room. There were occasional footsteps walking around on the floor above him, voices gliding past the door, or cars parking outside, but he couldn't hear them. All he could hear, other than the air conditioning that barely worked and his own breath, was the constantly ringing that always filled his ears.

Joaquin couldn't remember how long he had been laying sprawled out on the bed, staring up at the ceiling. He couldn't really check, either. The clock in the room had stopped working long before he had started staying there, and the throwaway phone he had bought had been dead for who knows how long. He lightly drummed his fingers against the wrinkled bed spread, which he had made but he wasn't laying under it. He didn't know why he made the bed anymore. No one was coming over.

He wasn't even sure how long he had been in San Junipero. He'd stopped keeping track after 3 months or so, the calender that hung on the wall nothing more than just a decoration at this point, like a decorative towel that was there for looks and not use. He was running out of money. He knew that. He knew he needed to get a job soon. But leaving the motel room was just a chore. People put him on edge. There were too many eyes, two many opportunities for someone to recognize him. The logical part of his mind knew that someone recognizing him on the other side of the country was completely illogical, but he didn't care. He just didn't want to go outside.

His zoning out was interrupted by the feeling of his stomach grumbling, angry that it was being neglected. He swallowed, his mouth dry as he slowly sat up, feeling his bones and joints pop and crack as need be. He pushed himself off the bed and trudged to the kitchen, his socked feet dragging across the floor. He no longer had a gracefulness to his step. He was too tired. There was no point to it. No one ever saw it.

He pulled open the freezer part of the mini fridge provided by the motel, and stared in at the nearly empty contents of the cold box of metal. He grabbed a hot pocket - because he couldn't afford anything else - and tossed it onto a paper plate and then into the microwave. He didn't care what buttons he pressed, he just pressed some of them and hoped for the best. He stared vacantly at the small kitchen's wall, until he heard the beeping of the microwave. Dinner. Or lunch. Or maybe breakfast. He couldn't tell. His blinds were always closed.

He sat the plate on the counter top, staring down at the wrap that was probably still frozen in the middle. After a bit he picked it up, and took a bite, wrinkling his nose at the taste. He never had an appetite. His entire life, he never really did. Food often just made him feel sick to his stomach. He successfully ate half, before tossing it into the trash, followed by him reaching up to run a hand through his hair. He needed a shower.

But he wasn't going to take one. Instead, he walked back over to the bed and sat down, flopping back into a slightly different position than before. He was laying horizontally instead of vertically. That was something new, huh? Really changing it up, he thought to himself, and then sneered at himself in annoyance. God, he was fucking tired.

But sleep wasn't an option. He hadn't been able to sleep properly since his cleanup job. The few times he had, it had been in the same bed as Kevin, with a warm solid mass next to him. Another person. A person who he was pretty sure hated him now. You are a criminal, he remembered, the words ringing throughout his head. "I didn't have a choice," he whispered back, knowing that's what he had wanted to say. He clenched his jaw and unclenched it. Did the same with his hand, pressing his nails to his palm.

His usual tick didn't help in calming him down, though. He tried to take a deep breath but couldn't, sitting straight up as he lifted a hand to his hair, roughly running his fingers through the tangled locks, which had grown quite a bit. He stood and rushed to the cramped bathroom, turning on the cold water and splashing some into his face. It didn't help. He looked at himself in the mirror, trying to take steady breaths. You need a haircut, he thought. He thought as he was going into a panic attack.

And he wasn't sure why, but the thought caused him to let out a soft chuckle. The chuckle turned to two, and then it delved into a laugh, and then into laughter until he was doubling over, holding onto his stomach as tears sprung to his eyes, and he realized that he wasn't sure if it was from his laughter or if he was crying.

A tear trickled down his cheek as he practically fell down onto the bathroom floor, the clutch he had on his stomach morphing into him wrapping his arms around himself in a mock hug, his fits of laughter turning to silent sobs. He felt pathetic. And he knew he was.

He wanted to punch something. Hit something. Or maybe just scream into the air that no one was listening to because he had no clue what else to do. He didn't know what he was doing. He didn't know what time it was. He didn't know what day it was. Everything was a blur. Nothing mattered. Did he matter anymore?