“Anyone home?” The familiar smell of dust and dead rats hit Troye; a mixture of gruesome self mutilating nights and cheap pot. He hit the broken door open - hanging and squeaking on by the lowest hinge - and dropped his backpack down on the filthy, chipped tile. No one responded.
Beneath him his legs fell; crumbling onto the ground next to his bag. He felt a wisp of a thought whisper and whoosh around his ears. “Tristitia, I’m not in the mood right now.”
T r o y e . He waved his hand around his head. “I already told you. Shut up, already.” The silent voice lingered in a much lighter hum than before.
There wasn’t any sound other than the almost non-existent sighs Tristitia breathed, and the very real sigh Troye let out his lungs. As heavy his chest was, his head was too. T r o y e ?
God, the smell was revolting. T r o y e ?
The ground was way too cold; his ripped jeans just sucked the cold up to his thin legs. T r o y e ? “Goddamn it, Tristitia.” T r o y e . “Stop worrying about me.”
The voice didn’t stop worrying - or at least that’s what Troye felt - but it did halt it’s speak. Now it really was quiet, and it was just the aura of concern and pity that strangled him; his throat. His body was freezing, his face was sore, and his mind felt tight as it was filled up to the brink of sad, self-deprecating, suicidal thoughts. It hurt to think.
Tristitia wrapped it’s . . . what you’d suppose to be hands around Troye’s wrists. T r o y e .
“Stop trying to comfort me,” he snapped his hands back and crossed his arms. T r o y e .
x :) x