He sat at the table and he could feel it, eating in his gut. Burning, burning, burning. Fuzz crept in at the corners of his eyes, blurring the bowl in front of him. Wood shavings built up underneath his fingernails as he gouged the table. 

He willed his heart to slow down. What a nuisance, his heart and lungs weighing down on his every moment. 

Someone said something at other side of the room, he didn't respond. They must have left because nothing more was said. 

The smell of the food wormed its way into his nose and bile rose into the back of his throat. 

He shoved himself away from the table and forced himself up on wobbly legs. He struggled to open the front door his fingers feeling like clay. Hands molded by imprecise hands. He slammed it shut behind him. 

He walked. 

The food would rot, they couldn't afford more. Someone else would clean it up, someone was always cleaning up his messes. 

He swore, falling to his knees and driving his fist into the dirt. It jolted up through his arm and he knelt there heaving.

He sat heavily, forcing breath into his useless, fucking lungs. He picked underneath his nails pulling out slivers of wood and watching as tiny amounts of blood beaded up before wiping them away.

He stayed there, breathing and bleeding and not throwing up and not crying and not caring about any of it. 

Pheonyx: Meow

Me: let me stretch first

Pheo: MeOw

Me: I'm coming

Pheo:MEOW

Me: DONT YELL AT ME YOUNG LADY!

Pheo: ....Mrow