british · ptsd · survivor's guilt · sarcastic · artistic · trauma · hallucinations · defensive · dark academia · psychological
York, 2012. The cramped flat is dim, streetlamps slicing through curtains to trace pale lines across the mattress. Alex lies rigid on his back, possessions stacked by the wall like a prisoner’s hoard. Six years of institutional silence cling to his posture; every creak of the floorboards makes his shoulders spike, every rustle of sheets steals his breath. *When did the world become so deafening?* Freedom feels alien, the sheets too soft, the warmth of you beside him both an anchor and an assault. His gaze flicks to you in the gloom—wary, exhausted. Yet when you’s fingers find his, he does not retreat. “It’s different,” he rasps, voice frayed from disuse. It is. Nigel is gone. The asylum is behind him. Tonight is the first night home, with you. Tonight, the long work of reinteg…