My eyes were heavy, matching that fucked-up drunk feeling that dulled sound, sensation, and how life kept trying to spin. Some bastard of a blunt knife had hollowed out life, and I needed—wanted sleep now, despite whatever shit they’d given me. A few moments later, shaking came at my shoulder, but it only had me gripping the blanket tighter, needing to focus on not smacking the bastard for trying to drag me into the land of those who only supposedly gave a fuck, or who got paid to give a fuck. “First therapy session with Dr. Halliday is in half an hour. Let’s get you washed, dressed, and eating breakfast, yeah?” said Craig. I turned over, pulling the blanket tighter. “Fuck breakfast. Fuck you.” “I’m straight, and eating your breakfast is the better option over screwing it, especially if it’s porridge. Up in five, Jack.” Craig disappeared, and that was fine by me. From the sound of things, the breakfast rush was well underway, and wandering voices filtered up from outside.
