Long after everyone else had fallen asleep, Lucius lay in bed, arms behind his head, staring up at the ceiling. He’d been trying to sleep for a while now, to now avail, and he couldn’t particularly place why – was it the discomfort of being at Michael’s, or was it because his parents were after him? He was more inclined to think it had to do with his parents than anything else. After a while, he began to drift, eyes closing. Images drifted through his mind, and his brain decided to settle on a bad memory instead of a happy one – the blood sacrifice of a child he’d been forced to watch’ participate in. He hadn’t wanted to. If it was visceral then, it was so much worse now. He woke, clapping a hand to his mouth and getting up, heading for the nearest bathroom whereupon he shut the door and lifted the toilet seat, in just enough time to bend over and vomit.
He didn’t want that memory. He didn’t want any of the others that were associated with the cult either. He wiped his mouth and sat back, gripping the sides of his head and made small rocking motions. He hated being broken. He felt worse than useless, a burden…he felt broken beyond repair right now. He didn’t know what good he was to anyone in his current mental and emotional state, nor did it seem that was likely to change anytime soon. After a while, he calmed. he flushed the toilet and moved over to the sink, where he splashed some water on his face and tried to get the taste out of his mouth. After making sure he hand’t woken anyone up (as far as he could tell) he headed back to the room he’d been staying in and lay back on the bed, this time on his side.
He needed sleep. He would love a night uninterrupted with dreams and memories of his difficult life. It wouldn’t be so bad if his brain focused on the happy parts, like the times with Mandy, but it rarely did. Tired – so tired. He yawned and tried to get comfortable. Could he be any good to anyone? He hoped so. If only he didn’t have those memories, maybe he could be that person again, the one from before he became broken, from before he’d seen horrific things.
One could hope.
He tried focusing hard on Mandy – her face, her voice, her laugh, the way she felt – everything he could remember, in an effort to have a better night than most. It must have worked – for at least part of the night he slept soundly; the overbearing pressure of his parents hunting him had left his mind for now, and he only dreamt happy memories and what-ifs he wished were real when he woke the next morning.