Memoirs of the Lost Loser

A Hero and Yet...

TRIGGER WARNING: Symptoms of disassociation, panic attacks and hallucinations.

Please heed this warning. :)

Also, pretty short chapter.

***

The ceiling, despite being poorly lit, felt unfamiliarly nostalgic.

The thin blanket did nothing to combat the cold biting your bare feet. The couch you lied in was stiff and you liked it. There were parts of the couch where your warmth plagued and you gladly snugged in, exploiting this rare chance that you were this comfortable.

When your nose brushed over the leather, you were glad it didn't smell like rubber and old sweat.

You didn't expect to be this comfortable, and you certainly... don't remember... wearing a full-sleeved, cuffed sh...irt...

Sleepiness gone and out of the window but never mind that— just whose clothes are you wearing?

You brashly brushed aside the blanket, discovering that you were now on this collared, boxy, and from what you could tell, a faintly gray shirt.

Maybe Nanaba's? Nope, she wears gray but never collared. Hange's? No, they wear yellow collared shirt. Petra's? Your girl wears white. Nifa's? Nah, you have yet to introduce yourself to her and you never see her. 

You caressed the buttons. Right side, meaning a man's—

You gasped. Did a man change your clothes?

Saw you... naked? 

You abruptly sat up, tactilely searching your body for more clues. You noticed the new tightness around your head and your ankle which only meant that the bloodied bandages on the floor were yours.

And beside it was a pail of water.

A bowl with bloodied towels...

Empty, used syringes...

A suture kit.

Your filthy clothes.

You paused. Surely you get things wrong very rarely but this might be one of those times you were glitching.

You chuckled, humorlessly.

Wait.

Who was the last person with you?

Your eyes trailed for familiar signs of your whereabouts. It's familiar, alright— the unexciting, exceedingly boring, nonexistent signs that someone breathes here everyday?

You nodded, licking your lips. Yeah, you knew whose office it was, and it did nothing but excite you that you were in Levi's office.

You quickly stomped the butterflies. They're lovely to look at, but ugly as fuck when you feel them. 

You repulse skinship. The mere thought of a man holding your hand makes you want to skin yourself alive; a vision of a heartfelt hug where your genitals are aligned tightens your jaw.

Why would anyone want that?  Ick is all that you feel.

So there is no reason for you to remember the memory of him carefully tending to your wounds, taking his time to know the lines of your palms, the wrinkles of your fingers or the prospect of him removing your clothes, seeing you without them— touching you everywhere and taking upon himself to change you to his shirt.

Sexually Repressed Phoebe: But you like that, don't you?

"Shut up." You murmured, feigning a shiver.