Survival Of The Fittest

"Yeah, see you." Siyanda waited a few seconds, feeling like there was something else ze should say. Nothing came, so ze hung up.

Faiza knocked again. "Siyanda...?"

Ze heaved a weary sigh. "Give me a second."

It felt like it should have taken more effort to stand, but ze wasn't shaking anymore. Just... tired. When ze opened the door, Faiza stared at zem with huge, red-rimmed eyes before crowding into Siyanda's space again and wrapping zem in a hug. Siyanda returned it, resting zir chin on her head. Neither of them said anything.

Words didn't feel very meaningful right now.

((Siyanda Nagi continued elsewhere))

Ze hung up, and then there was nothing but a faint buzzing noise in Dean's head as he sat there, staring at the wall. He kept the phone pressed to his ear, waiting for the buzzing and ringing to slowly disappear, until he was left with nothing but endless, empty silence. His arm slowly slipped down, gently thudding against the floor. He slowly opened his hand, letting the phone slip out of his grasp. He closed his eyes, and sighed.

He still wanted to just let himself go and tear the room apart, throw things at the wall and turn the place upside down, just to release all the righteous pain and anger he was feeling. He took hold of the closest thing to him that wasn't his phone - a balled up white sock - and threw it towards the opposite wall. The swing was lifeless, the release half-hearted. The missile barely made it more than a few feet away.

"God..."

He should go and talk with his parents, tell them about the plans for later this evening, or just to... make sure they all understood what had happened. They'd surely heard the news by now as well. Surely. If they hadn't, he'd have to be the one to tell them.

God. God, he couldn't do that right now. Couldn't bear going through that whole phone conversation once more, this time in person.

Slowly, Dean willed himself to his feet, each movement taking an eternity as he lifted the dead weight of his own body up off the ground. He turned the handle of his bedroom door, cracking it open, slowly shuffling down the landing. He glanced, briefly, down the stairs, hearing the low chatter of his parents, before stepping into the bathroom and locking the door behind him. Later. He'd cross that bridge later. It wasn't one he could put off crossing forever, but he could avoid it for just a little while longer at least.

He detached his prosthetic, resting it on the shelf specially dedicated for it, stripped off his scant remaining clothes, and stepped into the shower, barely registering how hot the water was as it splashed against his skin. He could hear something from outside, somebody knocking on the bathroom door. He ignored it. He closed his eyes and tilted his head up to face the flow of water, letting himself become enveloped in it, and letting everything outside disappear for a few more minutes.

((Dean Puchero continued in The Angel of the Odd))