Ink | Soulmate AU | ✓

nine | something broken

It was 3am on a Friday night – or a Saturday morning – and although my body ached, my mind couldn't rest. Instead of being out partying or whatever it was that students did on Friday nights, I was curled up in bed wishing for death. Which, coincidentally, was what students did every other day of the week. A full week had passed since my last conversation with George, and I missed him so badly, but he hadn't sent me any more messages.

Something wasn't right. I didn't want to admit it, but the truth was I was too scared to talk to him again; I didn't want to find out something awful. If I just avoided it, maybe it would go away.

I'd been lying awake for four hours now (my efforts to get more sleep and less coffee at the weekend had not exactly worked; I suppose, in the same way I was destined to fall in love with this boy, I was destined to have a bad sleep schedule) and still my thoughts were moving so fast I barely had time to breathe.

If I had been wondering if something was going on before, this had definitely confirmed it.

Still, I shouldn't have been thinking about this now; if I was to remain on this university course, to follow my dreams and save my own life, my own future— my next project had to take full priority. Without exception.

Self portraiture.

Maybe I could just draw something broken.

With a sigh, I pushed off my bed covers and shoved my feet into my greying bunny slippers, wrapping my thin pink dressing gown tightly around me. Then I yawned loudly, running my hands through my unkempt hair, feeling it stick up at odd angles.

I avoided looking in the mirror as I passed it.

Still half asleep, despite the fact I hadn't even slept in the first place, I sidled around my bed towards the window – feeling even more like a zombie with those rotting-flesh themed walls – and threw open the curtains. Moonlight flooded my bedroom, and despite the dismal decor it seemed to make things magical in its silvery glow. Despite everything, I felt a small smile at my lips. I had always loved the moon.

Turning the rusty key in the lock, I thrust open the window – mildly surprised to find the hinges still worked, as I don't think I'd opened it since I moved in here – and let the beautiful light bathe me. Regardless of the circumstances, I felt almost relaxed, and that didn't happen often. If at all.

Making my way to the landing, I trudged clumsily down the stairs, almost tripping several times because my eyes hadn't adjusted to the dark yet; I'd left my glasses on the bedside table so I was just going to have to be temporarily blind.

Carefully, I made my way to the kitchen: a dull, dank little room with hardly any space to move, never mind make a decent meal— hence why I lived on Chinese takeaways. I took out several slices of stale white bread and put them in the rusty old toaster, whilst I went to make myself a coffee.

I'd noticed that, for some reason, everything seemed to be moving in slow motion tonight. And it wasn't just some weird exaggeration because of my mental state; it was as if every movement, every breath, took an eternity to accomplish. Every single thing was just so slow. Except for my own brain, that was. My stress was transcendent. But my body was another story.

   Coffee would help. Surely. Coffee always helped.

Unsurprisingly, there were no clean mugs left, as I hadn't had time to wash up; huge towers of plates and cups were staring judgmentally at me from beside the sink. I tried to ignore them, but I couldn't, so I put one of the stacks of dishes into the sink itself and ran a little tap water onto them to shut them up.

After that, I reached for the cleanest-looking mug I could find (an ancient memorial of my trip to Disneyland, when I was six, depicting me and Donald Duck in a slightly uncomfortable embrace) and put the kettle on to boil.

Hearing the pop of the toast coming up, I tried to rush to fling it out and onto the countertop— but I was too slow again. It was burnt. What was going on tonight? Time seemed almost at a standstill for my body – or was it everything else that was slow, and I was normal? It was so hard to tell; maybe it was just the result of a week's sleepless nights, but I wasn't sure.

Deciding I was too lazy to make another piece of toast, I haphazardly took the margarine out of the fridge and began to butter the blackened ashes of bread, taking great care not to dip my dressing gown sleeve in the butter and failing anyway.

Then, I poured the water onto my instant coffee granules, savouring the rich sound of hot water meeting the cold mug. The actual pouring seemed to take forever, or at least maybe four days, the liquid filling up incredibly slowly. I really didn't know what was going on. Perhaps I should have gone to a doctor. I was starting to feel quite ill.

Determined not to give in to paranoia, I sank into the squishy old sofa and began to think about the events of the last few weeks, crossing my legs underneath me – an old childhood habit whenever I was scared or apprehensive. It used to make me feel... not safe, but safer. After my parents died, I spent a lot of time sitting like this. Hours, days, weeks at a time. I didn't want it to be like that again; so much emptiness.

I could not give up this art course. It was was the only thing I had, my only tiny whisper of talent, and I was not about to throw it away. I had no real friends to speak of, thanks to my crippling fear of socialising with new people, and no immediate romantic prospects. Of course I had George, in theory, but just because we were technically meant for each other didn't mean we'd end up that way. For all I knew he could live at the other end of the country, or in a different country all together, or he could be in love with someone else, or— or he could be a criminal—

But then, I reminded myself, I was a criminal too. We both were, me and George, and each at the hand of the other. I sometimes forgot that Inking was a serious crime that could get us killed. Love and hatred seemed to go hand in hand in this world. But then maybe they were just two sides of the same coin. That's what my mum used to say.

Being accepted to this university was like a lifeline, someone telling me I was worth something — and I was about to lose it, through my own fault. My own stupidity, my own selfishness. Tears welled in my eyes, but I forced them down. No. I just had to focus. I was strong, and I could do this.

   That's what I told myself.

My time wasn't running out, no matter how slow it ever got.

Or so I chose to believe.