Rotting

It was fucking filthy.

Andrea could not control himself as he lurched over, coughing out whatever bodily fluids he could muster.

It was sickening, it was painful. He felt like he would rather puke his organs out. He hung his head low, hands whitening as his grip over the toilet seat tightened.

It was wrong, it was all wrong. There was no other way he could physically react to the pain coursing through his veins. He couldn't scream, he couldn't cry; whatever should have been a normal reaction to grief was simply impossible.

Instead he felt his insides burn, his entire being begging to writhe in the pain he could not handle. He was littered with goosebumps, and bruises stained his knuckles and his knees.

It almost felt like he was dying. When he could no longer cough out whatever fluid his body could expel, he just wished he puked out his own blood. The grief was too painful for him to handle, his own body reacted terribly to it.

Was this how his body told him there was something wrong? There was a loss to be mourned, but he could not physically do that.

Loosening his grip, he collapsed to the tiled floor of his bathroom. His voice was disembodied, as he could not hear it from himself. His breathing was not his own, his eyes were seeing double, and his body was acting on its own accord.

Andrea lay there limp and numb. His makeup was smudged and stained, his hair was all soiled and he simply felt the bruises he had on his knuckles. The pain just didn't seem like it was enough. His veins still coursed with an excruciating pain that he couldn't explain. His heart was racing and he couldn't think that he was even breathing.

As he lay there and loses all track of time, he comes to. Shakily, he staggers up, hoisting himself up on the toilet seat, then to the sink.

He looked like he was rotting. With a jittery hand, he felt the tears that stained cheeks. He didn't realize he was crying, but even then, it wasn't enough.

It was almost instinctively as he darted out of his bathroom and grabbed a knife he kept nearby. He didn't care what it was. His grave state of mind thought it was a good idea to test the sharpness by cutting his finger a bit. Hissing, he was interrupted in his trance.

He looked to himself in the mirror once more. He was a mess, he was not himself. He looked broken, he looked like death.

Death.

Suddenly his expression had become dreary once more. In an instant he grabbed a fistful of his own hair and started slashing at it, sobbing. He can't process the pain on his loss, he was just ruining himself.

Loss, loss was something unknown to him. He never knew death, but when it came to his beloved, oh how he wished he could have been taken then. He manically cut at his own hair until he could cut no more. He looked into the mirror once more, face sullen and stained with makeup, tears, puke and slight smudges of the blood of his finger.

He realized what he had done to himself, and sank to his knees. Nothing he did helped the pain. It was there, it IS there. Perhaps it will always be there.

Oh how he wished he rotted from the inside out, or anywhere would be a nice start. Anything to have physical pain equate the pain in his heart.

As he sunk back unto the cold floor, amidst his clumps of chopped hair, he muttered "What will I do without you, Tesoro?"