Warm (Olandy)

Sleepless night. [9]

TW: Panicking, blood, self-blame, open wounds.

Also, it's 3rd person now. You know who you are.

This part has been heavily influenced by The Jungle by Upton Sinclair. And Johnny Got His Gun by Dalton Trumbo. Aka way too serious for what this story is.

--------------------------------------------------------------

Randy startled, covering his ears against the slamming of the door like it physically hurt. He drew the flannel across himself in the absence of a blanket on the couch. Oliver hadn't even looked at him when he put the camera down. He hadn't left the door open, or even hesitated before shutting the door. Randy's jacket reflected too much light for how dark the room is supposed to be, Turning Oliver into a beacon. He shook thinking of him.

He tugged off the flannel, revealing scabs and old healed scars crossing his arms, mostly the right. They're various experiences; most of them being the jagged corner of his old dumpster. Every time he had run from something (Mostly swans) and hid there, he had forgotten about the sharp green metal, repeatedly slicing his arm while something rustled outside his hiding place. In some twisted way, he liked how it felt, liked the marks and blood that come from it all. Maybe, the one thing that makes me unique. He thought. It's a miracle that none of them had gotten infected.

There is still light rimming the silhouette of the bedroom door. Oliver could still be awake in there, could he even sleep? With the lights on nonetheless?
"There's no way to tell." He whispered, the sound barely escaping. It felt like Oliver may somehow hear it and come out. Like those tiny decimals of sound could say everything that would make them okay.
Everyone around is probably asleep, neighbors are dead silent, but maybe they always are. Randy found himself just sitting up on the couch. There's nothing to do that won't alert Oliver, but between the headache and emotions, there's no way he could fall asleep.

There's a tiny bit of light coming from above the stovetop. Two dirty pans rested there. They could be white-hot, no one could tell unless they touch them. Old dried grease reflected the light, showing the texture just enough so you could tell what it would feel like to touch it. But still; there's no way to tell how hot the pans are. There's no way to tell if Oliver's okay or mad or whatever until he checks. But like touching the pan, it may make it worse. It'll burn, he knows it will.

He angled his arm towards the column of light, giving texture to every piece of growing skin trying so hard to cover the wounds. Trying so hard to become a scar, trying to make it look as if everything has happened, and that's it. The end.

That's not going to happen.

Tears are still flowing. They have been since the door slammed, he guessed they just didn't matter enough to be noticeable, but it's still surprising. They aren't from sadness or desperation, but rather from being unable to stop them. With the scabs in view, he idly traced around every rough edge. A particularly long cut went from his elbow down his forearm. This one was memorable. This one wasn't from the jagged piece of metal, it was from some glass in the dumpster after he got cut from the metal. He fell into the dumpster, caught his left arm on the edge, and landed on the right side, smashing the discarded bottle.
It's already starting to peel, I might as well.

He got the edge of his nail under and brought up one edge, blood red as Oliver's flannel followed. It was a cool pain, not warm until the blood chased it. At some points, it felt like it could be intense enough to stop him, but all he did was take a deep breath and continue. Though sniffling, he could sometimes smell the metal of blood festering underneath.