WeightJean had changed. Not just in name. Not just in faction. Somewhere deep inside of him, something at his very core had shattered. He shut down. He became apathetic toward the world. He was watching himself from above. It was like someone else was piloting his body as he got through his day to day life.
His mask was carefully in place so he didn't worry anyone. Was it fooling anyone?
There was a long period of time where Jean was not even aware of the time. How much had passed? How many birthdays? What year was it anymore?
Now and again he would come around to be himself. He wished he didn't.
Being Jean-Baptiste Boudreaux came with so much heaviness. It felt like being drowned in a lake with a down comforter surrounding you. You suffocated while you drowned. Sometimes it got so much that he choked on the heaviness and everything would stop.
Sometimes when Jean was himself, he would be weighed down still, but not as heavy. There were hands there, holding him. There were many voices whispering into his ear. There were arms surrounding him. It was like feeding him oxygen while he was drowning. He was still falling but it was slower. It let him save his strength.
The color of the world was starting to come back. When did it fade to this miserable smear of gray?
Maybe soon he would be able to join the world of colors and light again.
He was fighting to join. Struggling as best as he could to get himself out of the heavy feelings that he lived with every day. There were hands helping him.
One day.
Today, he took a breath as he woke up. He felt how the cold air of the room burned his lungs. He felt the warm bodies against his, and listened to the breathing of other people. It was hard to tell who was who right now.
Jean was himself again. This much he could tell. It wasn’t as heavy as usual, nowhere near it. The way he didn’t feel like he was struggling for breath was so unusual. For the first time in a very long time, he didn’t wake up and immediately had tears slipping down his cheeks. He felt refreshed. Sort of.
He felt dirty. He needed a shower.
With great difficulty, Jean would extract himself from the tangle of limbs that was his support system and headed to the bathroom. He wasn’t being dragged by sadness, he wasn’t feeling suffocated by the things he had to do.
Maybe this would stay.
After he showered, brushed his teeth, and got dressed, he really felt like he was human again. He felt alive.
Alive.
Perhaps what he felt before was death. Perhaps it was the loss of Kor McKneil, the loss of Rutile that he was mourning. Has that been true? It made sense, but only he would know. Perhaps he could work through that sometime with his new faction.
I want it to be done. I want to live again.Word count: 512
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