Corey Shane Fitzpatrick (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
irishblood) wrote in ![[community profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/community.png)
muserevival2013-12-13 11:25 pm
irishblood) wrote in muserevival2013-12-13 11:25 pm
Entry tags:
047.1. Muse prompt
"So help me heal these wounds,
They've been open for way too long.
Help me fill this soul,
Even though this is not your fault"
Wounded, Good Charlotte
Trigger warning for self-harm references
It had been a couple of weeks not that Corey was feeling like everything was slipping out his grip. At first, it had been easy to ignore it. It was easier to get drunk or turn on some really loud music to try to drown it out. At first, he had his art but his work was so far from his usual style it was almost like a stranger was holding the brush. There was a darkness in all of them and once he was done with them, he had found himself just looking at the canvas and having no idea what it all really was or how it ended up coming out of him.
Then that stopped too. He woke up one day with a fierce hangover and went on to just stand in front of a blank canvas, staring at it and unable to even get a pre-emptive stroke across the white space. White space was exactly how his mind had felt that morning. He felt like he was in a daze, and just went through the motions of the day, ending up in bed by 5pm and sleeping right until lunch time the next day. It was a PBJ for breakfast with lime KoolAid because he was desperately low on groceries, and then went back to bed, put the pillow over his head and tried to drown the rest of the world out.
One thing he didn’t do any time in the past week was go to the hospital. At first, he had been visiting Bailey, and then once Bailey fell asleep, he would go to the ICU and sit out in the hall for hours just waiting and staring at the print of a ballerina on the wall across from the bench he chose each time. For some reason, the melancholy look on her face fascinated him and he spent hours on end trying to look further into what the artist was meaning with the piece. That was one reason why he rarely went to an art gallery with anyone. He usually went alone, because he could literally spend hours absorbing one piece.
His art had shutdown on him, though. The inspiration was gone, and it was the same day he had tried so hard to go into the ICU and beyond to his uncle’s room. He had failed. He walked out of the hospital and hadn’t gone back since. By now, Bailey was probably think he was done with him, but that was okay. Bailey didn’t need someone like him around him. He was weak and a jinx. Bad things happened to people he loved way too much and he couldn’t throw Bailey under that bus by getting any closer to him. He had shut down on everyone in his family, screened their calls at first and then stopped answering his cell phone entirely. He pretty much stopped everything entirely and wasted his days away in his underwear sitting in front of the TV feeling off his face and managing to pick up a pack-a-day smoking habit in lieu of eating decent food when he had absolutely no appetite.
And he was still double-dosing on his medication. He went to three different doctors and told them all he had lost his prescriptions for his meds, so they gave him new ones. If he took double (or even more a couple of times), he could cockblock his mind into staying stuck like a broken record on things he didn’t want to think about and he stopped feeling like his insides were trying to jump out of his skin, often leading to a panic attack where he would sit on the floor of the shower with the cold water beating down on him to try to flush the thoughts out of his head and stop his skin crawling.
Now there was today, and there was tonight. He had not only almost tripled his dosage of meds that day, but he took them with Scotch that was supposed to have been a Christmas present for his Uncle Euan. He didn’t know what happened, but he now found himself sitting on the bathroom floor nursing his hand that was bleeding from where he had punched his mirror in a burst of anger that came from nowhere. The shower was on because he had never gotten to the point of undressing and getting into it and the room was filled with steam. The mirror was broken and the cuts over his hand were stinging, but it felt good. Too good. That pain was counteracting the other pain and it was a temptation he had never truly found himself facing before.
That was the moment he knew something was really wrong with him. He was sitting there nursing his bleeding hand to his chest, sweating in the roomful of steam, and holding a thick shard of glass in the other hand and looking at it, veering way too close to taking that one step too far. For a terrifying moment, he almost took the shard to his wrist, and as soon as it was there, it was gone, and he dropped the shard like it was burning hot. He shook his with a mumbled, tearful, “No...” to himself and he was stumbled up off the floor. He ended up stepping on another piece of glass to get out of the bathroom, but pain there just sobered him even more. What was happening to him?
He was in tears by the time he got out to his kitchen, walking blood across his carpet. When he grabbed up his cell phone, more blood smeared across the beige countertop. It was really late. In fact, it was well after midnight and nearing one am, but if he didn’t make this call, he wasn’t sure he could trust himself to stay safe. He found the number and his call, putting the iPhone up to his ear with a trembling hand. There were a few rings, and he was begging in a hoarse whisper to himself to not go to voicemail. Thank hell there was an answer before it clicked over. The answer was sleepy and husky, and Corey hated that he woke him up, but he didn’t know what else to do. “Gabe... i-it’s Corey. Please... help me. I-I... I want to hurt myself.”
- Gabe iscrazyforyou, used with permission and love
Corey Fitzpatrick ♦ Original Character
They've been open for way too long.
Help me fill this soul,
Even though this is not your fault"
Wounded, Good Charlotte
It had been a couple of weeks not that Corey was feeling like everything was slipping out his grip. At first, it had been easy to ignore it. It was easier to get drunk or turn on some really loud music to try to drown it out. At first, he had his art but his work was so far from his usual style it was almost like a stranger was holding the brush. There was a darkness in all of them and once he was done with them, he had found himself just looking at the canvas and having no idea what it all really was or how it ended up coming out of him.
Then that stopped too. He woke up one day with a fierce hangover and went on to just stand in front of a blank canvas, staring at it and unable to even get a pre-emptive stroke across the white space. White space was exactly how his mind had felt that morning. He felt like he was in a daze, and just went through the motions of the day, ending up in bed by 5pm and sleeping right until lunch time the next day. It was a PBJ for breakfast with lime KoolAid because he was desperately low on groceries, and then went back to bed, put the pillow over his head and tried to drown the rest of the world out.
One thing he didn’t do any time in the past week was go to the hospital. At first, he had been visiting Bailey, and then once Bailey fell asleep, he would go to the ICU and sit out in the hall for hours just waiting and staring at the print of a ballerina on the wall across from the bench he chose each time. For some reason, the melancholy look on her face fascinated him and he spent hours on end trying to look further into what the artist was meaning with the piece. That was one reason why he rarely went to an art gallery with anyone. He usually went alone, because he could literally spend hours absorbing one piece.
His art had shutdown on him, though. The inspiration was gone, and it was the same day he had tried so hard to go into the ICU and beyond to his uncle’s room. He had failed. He walked out of the hospital and hadn’t gone back since. By now, Bailey was probably think he was done with him, but that was okay. Bailey didn’t need someone like him around him. He was weak and a jinx. Bad things happened to people he loved way too much and he couldn’t throw Bailey under that bus by getting any closer to him. He had shut down on everyone in his family, screened their calls at first and then stopped answering his cell phone entirely. He pretty much stopped everything entirely and wasted his days away in his underwear sitting in front of the TV feeling off his face and managing to pick up a pack-a-day smoking habit in lieu of eating decent food when he had absolutely no appetite.
And he was still double-dosing on his medication. He went to three different doctors and told them all he had lost his prescriptions for his meds, so they gave him new ones. If he took double (or even more a couple of times), he could cockblock his mind into staying stuck like a broken record on things he didn’t want to think about and he stopped feeling like his insides were trying to jump out of his skin, often leading to a panic attack where he would sit on the floor of the shower with the cold water beating down on him to try to flush the thoughts out of his head and stop his skin crawling.
Now there was today, and there was tonight. He had not only almost tripled his dosage of meds that day, but he took them with Scotch that was supposed to have been a Christmas present for his Uncle Euan. He didn’t know what happened, but he now found himself sitting on the bathroom floor nursing his hand that was bleeding from where he had punched his mirror in a burst of anger that came from nowhere. The shower was on because he had never gotten to the point of undressing and getting into it and the room was filled with steam. The mirror was broken and the cuts over his hand were stinging, but it felt good. Too good. That pain was counteracting the other pain and it was a temptation he had never truly found himself facing before.
That was the moment he knew something was really wrong with him. He was sitting there nursing his bleeding hand to his chest, sweating in the roomful of steam, and holding a thick shard of glass in the other hand and looking at it, veering way too close to taking that one step too far. For a terrifying moment, he almost took the shard to his wrist, and as soon as it was there, it was gone, and he dropped the shard like it was burning hot. He shook his with a mumbled, tearful, “No...” to himself and he was stumbled up off the floor. He ended up stepping on another piece of glass to get out of the bathroom, but pain there just sobered him even more. What was happening to him?
He was in tears by the time he got out to his kitchen, walking blood across his carpet. When he grabbed up his cell phone, more blood smeared across the beige countertop. It was really late. In fact, it was well after midnight and nearing one am, but if he didn’t make this call, he wasn’t sure he could trust himself to stay safe. He found the number and his call, putting the iPhone up to his ear with a trembling hand. There were a few rings, and he was begging in a hoarse whisper to himself to not go to voicemail. Thank hell there was an answer before it clicked over. The answer was sleepy and husky, and Corey hated that he woke him up, but he didn’t know what else to do. “Gabe... i-it’s Corey. Please... help me. I-I... I want to hurt myself.”
- Gabe is
crazyforyou, used with permission and love