falsusveritas

ghosts appear // falsusveritas

“I’ll see you in a bit, then,” he murmurs out to the closing door, and then he’s letting out a sigh as he slumps in bed, staring up at the ceiling. Tim’s cellphone died ages ago, after leaving message upon message in various people’s voicemails upon sobriety, and now he has absolutely nothing left to do with the new brainpower he’s received.

Granted, he’s not supposed to do much. He’s tired and fatigued and really, all he wants to do is go back to sleep, but Heather left to get him food and things and he doesn’t think it’ll help her much if she comes back and his eyes are closed. His memory gives him the vaguest images of the bathroom scene–a bit of sound, and then a tactile sensation as fingers wrapped around his hand. He doesn’t quite remember the words, but he does remember the feelings.

And, well, she didn’t feel good at all.

So he lies there and he tries to keep his eyes open.

At some point, though, he slips and his eyes close and he dozes off for a bit–a couple of minutes, a stray amount of seconds. Tired. His head is swimming and it’s really funny, how he keeps getting himself into these situations and living, but then he supposes he didn’t factor in the Heather variable.

On the bright side, at least the nightmares seemed to have subsided. Whether they’ll return come a full recovery is another matter entirely.

His mind jerks him eventually, reminding him that he has to be awake for Heather’s return, and when he opens his eyes again, he half-expects her to be there–but instead, there’s a man seated beside him where she should be. His eyes widen, weak heart beginning to jackrabbit in his chest, and he automatically assumes the worst. He isn’t sure what to feel about that, either.

Then he remembers people, and now he knows he wants to live.

Breathe.

Exist.

Breath escaping him in a soft puff, he stares quietly, and he tries to think of something to say, but it all dies in his throat. That is, until he notices the Twizzlers.

“… are you for real…?”