#praesaga

                         it’s 2:33 in the morning. an alarm clock blinks red nearby; the glow from a streetlight filters through the curtains in sharp lines of shadows across pale skin. he should be asleep, but he isn’t.  he can’t.  wide awake, legs restless, thoughts racing, heart aching ---- and laying next to her.  he knows he won’t be sleeping for a few hours. can feel it in the needle-prick bite buzzing just underneath his skin, settling uneasily in his bones and making him ANTSY.  he’ll toss and turn all night if he doesn’t ask -------

                        sleep-bruised eyes; tongue stale with exhaustion; a cloud of frustration nipping at his patience like a storm crackles static across the sky  -- all a result of the persistent INSOMNIA clinging to his bones like a parasite. draining  him, darkening his gaze, biting pangs of aggression and anxiety into his throat. ( when he couldn’t sleep, he couldn’t think,  not around all the other thoughts swirling violently in his skull. remembering; burning; suffering. )

                                                     but even as he stares in vain up at the ceiling, it allows one gift: he hears the CRASH in the room next door and is on his feet before he can even think.  he grabs the aluminum bat resting conveniently next to his bed and darts out into the darkness, voice calling out sharply, high with panic: ❛ lydia? LYDIA? ❜ shouldering hard against her unlocked door, he bursts into her room, fingers curling tight around his bat; ready to take on THE WORLD to protect her. but it is not a monster that he finds, crouching over lydia’s unconscious body. no, it’s lydia,  fingers bloody and dusted with shards, glass shattered all around her. the mirror, cracked open by her hand; their reflections, barely visible in the violent display. ❛ lydia, hey -- what’s wrong? ❜ he’s dropping the bat against her desk, hands now held up instead; wanting to comfort  lydia, to wake her up, to ground  her to this reality. 

just awful - lydia tbh