Continuation from here.
cw: suicidal thoughts
The whole room engulfed in steam; idle hum of running water not quite loud enough to block out the embarrassing way he heaves after crying, but at least this time, he’s alone. Casey is entering the second hour of being huddled into the tiniest corner of his bathroom on the floor, knees pulled tight to his chest. The water’s gone cold, but he can’t will himself up to turn it off.
On this day, even his self-made purgatory -- his most long-standing defense against the outside world -- can’t save him, thus he succumbs to indulging in the ridiculous hope that all the steam will somehow suffocate him in a freak, but freeing, accident.
That’s the only sanctuary that feels real. It’s the only proven painkiller for the way his chest aches -- the only muscle relaxer for the way his shoulders lock in place to stop themselves from shaking. Ironically, it’s also the most highly condemned, for it has one extremely adverse side effect; and that’s that it puts all the pain on everyone around him.
How long is he supposed to stick it out before that consideration is no longer necessary?
He knows he’s being stupid. It’s ludicrous to stand at the top of the world, wishing he’d fall. Still, the thought of moving forward still makes him sick to his stomach with dread. Grow up, he internally scolds himself, but maybe the teenager who’d once furnished his bathtub with blankets and pillows to further distance himself from his mother will never quite leave him.
His phone starts to ring from on top of the counter. It’s successful in distracting him, but he can’t bring himself to reach for it because he can’t stand the thought of embarrassing himself in front of anyone else. He can’t stand the idea of letting others pick up the pieces when he’s the one who dropped the glass.
At least here, when shards are scattered everywhere -- when he's entirely failed to keep himself together, he’s alone.