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Steve looks down at his hands, which are shaking violently. His room is dark, and the silence is overbearing. The smell of blood fills his nostrils, even though there’s no blood anywhere. Only in his head, and now on his hands as he watches them. Screeching outside of his windows has him flinching away. Wings beat against the window, and Steve knows it’s not real. He does, but it also is. And his heart is beating out of his chest, his skin clammy.
Everything is red, just like the sky, a sky full of bats. And they’re tearing off his skin, biting into his side. He drops into the corner, arms over his head. He’s quivering, trying stop, but his head is spinning now. Everything blurs together, and then Steve wakes up face down on his carpeted floor. It’s hard to breathe like this, and his whole body hurts. He pushes himself up on shaking arms, tears dripping down his face. It’s light outside now, birds chirping, meaning he’s been out for at least six hours.
It takes him a few minutes to get his bearing, and he glances at his alarm clock. He’s running late, and ends up having to rush to get Robin for school. Her eyes look him up and down when she climbs into his car.
“You doing ok?”
“We can talk later. For now, you’re going to be late if we don’t hurry up.”
“Alright.”
They don’t talk on the way, Steve’s too busy staring at the road and gripping the wheel tight enough to turn his hands ghost white. He’s still shaking when he gets to work, opening the store alone as he does each morning. The rest of his morning blurs together. Everything still hurts, and he’s unable to get out of fight or flight mode. His chest hurts, and he feels like his body is made of lead. Robin comes in late, and they don’t end up getting a chance to talk. Steve’s not sure he wants to anyway.
Even though the episodes are getting more frequent, and intense, and he knows he should talk to someone. The words elude him, and he finds himself keeping on in silence. Robin gives him a few odd looks, but doesn’t ask. Steve’s equally hurt, and glad that she’s giving him space.
“Can you take me back home? It’s my night to make dinner, and I’m going to be late if I don’t get going now,” Robin says as they’re closing everything up.
“Sure,” Steve mumbles, stacking the last bill that he just counted.
“You sure you’re ok? We can talk if you need,” Robin says, clearly put off by his answer.
“I’m fine, tired.”
Robin hums, clearly not buying it. But she lets it go. “Call Dustin when you get home. I’m sure he wants to hear from you,” she suggests once they reach her house.
“I’ll do that,” Steve lies, knowing he’s not going to call anyone.
But he wants her off his back, and it works. She climbs out, waves, and walks to her door. Once she’s inside the house, Steve drives back home, going as slow as he can without someone ramming him. He idles in the driveway for a few minutes listening to the radio before shutting off his car, and walking inside. His body hurts, and his mind is swirling with far too many thoughts. And as Steve looks around at the artfully decorated hallway, anger bubbles in his chest. He’s alone in a house designed to look like anyone gave a fuck about it, or the people that live in it.
He picks up the vase sitting on a small table by the door, full of dead flowers Steve had to pick up the last time his parents had been there. They had scolded him for leaving it empty, said that he needed to make sure the house looked presentable. He remembers waking up from a horrible nightmare, and having to go out to buy the “proper” napkins for the lunch guests that his parents had made him host in their place. Steve throws the vase as hard as he can against the wall, shards flying in every direction upon impact. One slices his chin while another cuts his hand. Not he can’t find it in him to care, pure rage numbing every physical sensation. Steve rams his foot down on the shards, grinding them further, and crushing the flowers. He throws everything off of the table that leads to the foyer before chucking all of the paintings off the walls into his mother’s sitting room so he doesn’t have to look at them any longer.
By then his chest is heaving, and tears drip down his face, mixing with the blood hitting the floor. The tears sting his still open wounds, the first thing he’s felt since throwing it. Then just like that, the anger is gone, replaced by a void swallowing everything in him.
“I can’t do this anymore,” he whispers, looking down. The nightmares, the hallucinations, the increasing number of triggers, all of it weighs too heavily on him in that moment.
He walks to the bathroom, opening the mirror to show the medicine cabinet behind it. He pulls out his dad’s prescription sleep meds, takes one, and trudges up to his room. The clock chimes seven, but Steve doesn’t register it. He sits down on his bed, staring at his hands.
“I’m so tired,” he whispers to no one.
He falls back fully onto his bed, staring up at the ceiling. Blood slides down his jawline towards his ear, making him shiver. His hand is also beginning to sting from where it’s rubbing against the sheets, but he can’t seem to force himself up to take care of it. The phone rings from somewhere in the house, but by then, Steve is too far gone to care. Sleep pulls him down, and he slowly closes his eyes. And behind his eyelids is a familiar scene of red skies, vines, and bright thunder. Screams echo in his ears, making him feel nauseous even as he drifts off to sleep.