I wish I was still drunk. The thought was a dull thump inside of the boy's skull, a bitter reminder with no meaning behind it. His body was being dragged by his own two feet, but Quinn felt uncomfortable in doing so. There was an urge to slow down, to stop, to give up. The dizziness was getting worse and warmth spread through his body as an alarming rate. I wish I wasn't here. His eyes began to droop on their own, this was not the first time they had in the last few minutes, nor would it be the last. Every portion of him was heavy and burning, pressing him toward the floor with every waking second. I wish I was dead.

"Stop," Quinn hissed, the fury directed at his own mind as he threw his shoulders and head back. He got the briefest glimpse of the ceiling, fluorescents blinding his eyes before they returned to stare straight ahead. The hallway was messy and disorganized. Several tropical potted plants, fake or not, had been tossed onto their sides and spilled piles of dirt across the hallway. Footprints left their own impressions in the earth and dragged it across the carpet, ingraining bits of dirt and debris down the entirety of the hall.

What Quinn didn't want to linger on was the stains that weren't dirt. There were darker, wetter spots in the hallway. He hadn't been near them as they'd happened, but the obvious answer was in front of him between the splatters against the wall and the slumped form half hidden behind one of the upturned pots. Quinn kept to his side of the hall as he passed, not recognizing the body as anything more than vaguely human and most likely a former passenger.

The boy slowed ever slightly as he crossed by. His eyes hesitated and wavered as they flickered over the victim. Something was lodged in their throat where the blood stemmed from. It was black and sharp on all edges, either a broken pipe or a shard of metal Quinn couldn't tell. Too much blood was smeared across the surface. Self defense or a cold blooded murder, it didn't matter which. Brown eyes watched the hallway, and for the briefest moment, met with Quinn's. They'd lost as sheen that came with being alive, any emotion or light. "Sorry about that, man," the boy muttered, body pressing heavier against the wall for support. Maybe I can just lay down here. Slather myself in blood and play dead.

A sharp shriek echoed from down the hall. It was piercing and painful and left Quin quaking. His body shuddered heavily, and he was spurred on to continue. What followed after it was the sound of someone else, and Quinn was quick to realize where it was heading. Panic gripped his heart and he stumbled backwards away from the sound coming in front of him. His eyes flickered desperately for an escape. All these sick people have lost their goddamn minds. It's like the beginning of a fuckng apocalypse movie.

Quinn eyed the body a final time before deciding against it and instead raced forward the ten paces it took to reach the janitor's closet. It should have been locked, but the handle was clearly broken and twisted. It still took work to turn, and the slippery palms the boy had didn't help and they slipped off and around the metal before he finally put the weight of his hip against the door and barreled it open. The inside took less than one look to know it had been ransacked, but with footsteps closing in, it would have to do. Quinn dove inside and slammed the door shut behind him, frantically searching for something to help bare the door without a proper lock. The only answers were a cheap, plastic mop bucket or one of the metal shelves.

With a deep breath, Quinn grabbed the rack even as the dizziness swayed and rocked his body, blurring his vision and he shoved his body against the shelf with all his might. It gave way, scraping against the floor before successfully toppling in front of the door and into the other pressed against the other wall. Left at an odd diagonal angle, he hoped it would be enough as he shoved the mop bucket aside and collapsed against the back wall of the utility closet.

"Fuck," Quinn hissed, holding his head in his hands and feeling the warmth from his fever scuald his palms. "Maybe I should have stayed out there." And what? Died? A harsh sigh blew through his lips and he curled himself into a tight ball as he stared at the door. Footsteps sounds on the other side, forcing his heartrate up into his ears but he never saw a face. There was no "here's Johnny" moment, and after a few minutes of anxiously watching the broken handle, quiet settled in once more.

Shifting on the ground, the boy felt a sharp ache race up his tailbone. His eyes glanced around, but there weren't any better sitting options than the concrete. Instead, he closed his eyes for the first time in a long time and leaned his head back against the wall behind him. The strain of being constantly on the lookout left a painful strain on the back of his eyes. "I need a nap," the boy mumbled, stretching one arm above his head and then the other as he heard a few successful pops from his spine. What if I don't wake up?

Quinn shivered once more. He laid his feet out in front of him and splayed out in the small corner before pulling his phone out. Just past the lockscreen was his contact list. It was still left open after his phone call to Jax had failed, and with a flick of his thumb he lazily began to scroll through the list. Anything was better than watching the only entrance to the room he had trapped himself inside.

"When was the last time I cleaned this thing out?" There were people Quinn didn't even recognize in his contacts. Some were a vague memory, others were labeled as "Guy with the ponytail from English," which only helped him so much more. He paused a few times, tempted by certain names before he remembered the wifi was currently not an option. Who would I even really call? Jax? What if this was my last call ever? Would that make it special? My dad?

The thought was cold and bitter, only making the feeling of hopelessness in his gut worse. Why bother? Quinn turned off his phone and flipped it over so the screen was pressed against his pants and he twisted his head to lean against the concrete in a different position. All the energy was drained out of him.

Quinn bit his lip, staring up at the ventilation vent up on the wall beside him. "Do you ever feel like you were born with too many problems?" he asked the question to no one, fingers absently picking at his phone casing. Anxiety, ADHD, and not to mention my "perversions" or whatever the fuck dad called it the last time we spoke. "Maybe I'm just broken."

Quin ran a hand through his hair, twisting up the sweaty, limp pieces between his fingers before he drew his damp fingertips down his face and past his neck. He rubbed the scars on his chest absently, soothing the skin there as his eyes closed again and he tried to settle down in a comfortable position to sleep. Or maybe I'm just really tired. Tired of living or tired of trying, who the fuck knows. He blew out one more long, lasting breath. Maybe it'll be better when I wake up. It'd be nice if this was a dream.