Teddy, like any great artist was prone to his fits of lassitude. There were days, sometimes weeks, that even a good fucking wouldnât do him--wasnât enough to calm the pulse beating in his head, a thrumming refrain that drove him to writhe and flop. Listless. Languid. Lethargic. Laziness, Ron called it, though he had his days that werenât any better, and wasnât one to talk.
In the midst of the fugue, the days blurred. Teddy curled on his side, limp, save the thumb that rubbed back and forth over the handle of his switchblade, the polished wood gone smooth and worn from the motion repeated, until, it too wasnât enough. It was strange, the feeling of nothingness, of being nothing, both oppressive and fleeting and spiraling.
It ended in violence; it always did.
Teddy snagged the half empty tumbler of whiskey on the table behind him and curled his body upwards as he flung it towards the wall, just to see it shatter-- to hear hit crash and tingle and break. Energy expended and converted and wasted, on such a stupid fuckinâ gesture that wasnât even worth the mess.
He did it again with an ashtray, and then again with the whole fuckinâ bottle, and again, again, again, until his chest heaved, and Teddy felt alive again; like a real breathing thing.
Teddy snarled at his own mess of dripping liquid, glass, and ash. He rubbed his thumb, back and forth over the handle of his switchblade, the polished wood still smooth and worn from the motion, repeated.
The world righted itself.
