~~~Trigger Warning, self injury~~~

Roy was no longer very fond of being alone with his thoughts. He almost loathed the prospects of it. And the prospects were of course, very high. Roy had lived by himself for awhile, ever since he uprooted to Los Angeles. He never minded it, he actually enjoyed the solitude and looked forward to it. No one to bother him, ask questions. No hay to bale. A room full of inanimate objects. Just Roy and his thoughts.

He didn't like it anymore. Not since the hospital. That was a different kind of loneliness. Hours on hours of being alone. Jeffrey hadn't been much of company either. It was like he just came and left. He was another miniscule moment in Roy's long prison sentence. A sentence. Like this was a punishment. Roy Walker was in prison. His body. He was beginning to give up on commanding his aliens. They were never going to listen to him anyway. It was no use trying.

After hours of staring at the blank wall in front of him-not the ceiling this time; he was over that- Roy's eyes began to grow heavy. To his relief, there was half a bottle of whisky sitting on the kitchen table. Roy downed it quickly, just enough to give him a considerable buzz. It stung the back of his throat, leaving a strong bitter taste on his tongue.

He didn't have any energy to shower. He just wanted to sleep. He could've slept for days. He could've slept for years. Anything to escape. He had few good dreams in the hospital. Most were nightmares or the events of the fall rewinding over and over in his mind. Roy hoped it would be different now that he was home. His familiar bed was cold and still unmade from the last time he slept in it.

Roy unbuttoned his shirt and tossed it near the window. He slowly lifted his legs onto the bed before transferring over and he chuckled to himself. Wow. What a feat. Something they wouldn't let him do in the beginning. He contemplated changing into night attire but decided against it. The armoire was across the room. He didn't take off his trousers, either. It was a pain to do, and it didn't matter if he couldn't feel it.

With a heavy sigh, Roy lay his head back on the silk-lined pillow. Time enough to sleep at last. The buzz from the whisky made his head spin like a carousel and the sounds of outside began to slowly fade as his eyes started to flutter shut.

***
He's running. Running with the earth under his bare feet. The wind whips his hair back from his face, air stinging his cheekbones. Speed. Tall trees of green surround him, branches catch at his clothes. He's spiraling deeper and deeper into the lush labyrinth. Farther from sound. Farther into silence. Nothingness. Darkness. Around and around and around. He's breathing heavy with each step, and comes to a grinding halt as he reaches the center of the maze. Alone. He's winded, yet feels no need to sit. Instead he decides to go back, but there is no entrance or exit. The trees seem to be closing in. Closer and closer, branches leaving scratches on his bare arms. Vines begin to grasp at his feet and slowly inch up his calves, tearing his thighs, stopping at his hips. Yet as much as he tries to get free, thorns dig into his skin. They claw and scream, bringing him down to the ground. He can't get up. And the screams escaping from his mouth are nothing but silent.
***

Roy woke up abruptly, beads of sweat covering his forehead. For an instant he forgot where he was. He tried to sit up quickly and then realized as he fell back down. He touched his thigh. That's right. I'm home. And fucking paralyzed.

Roy groaned and rubbed his eyes, the taste of alcohol still on his tongue. He had almost forgotten. His lower abs weren't functional anymore so he had a system of first pushing himself up on his elbows and then scootching back with his hands till he was upright.

He couldn't believe this got him out of breath. And he wasn't sure what was more pathetic; being out of breath, or not wanting to even get up at all.

He didn't know what time it was. The sun came through his window at a different angle, so Roy presumed it was at least after noon. His back ached. It was a different type of pain. An ache that pulsated through his core. Roy ran a slender finger down the swollen pink scar that that followed his backbone. His stitches were out but the laceration still felt like it would open at any moment. He winced. Nothing that alcohol wouldn't help. Roy sighed in disappointment when he noticed the empty bottle of whisky next to his bed.

Roy pondered getting up. He didn't feel like showering. He wasn't hungry. He couldn't necessarily leave the building. What could he do? He swung his legs over the side of the bed and pushed his wheelchair out of the way.

Grasping the bedpost, Roy closed his eyes, imagining  his legs kicking out. Maybe his whole problem was just not having enough concentration. He needed to concentrate. To imagine. As much as he imagined and pictured and willed, nothing happened.

Roy inhaled deeply. His knuckles were white. Slowly, slowly, he began to pull himself up straight. Roy began to laugh, the subject of laughter uncertain. I was such an idiot, he thought to himself.  Wait... I am an idiot..Shit...

His knees wouldn't lock. They buckled beneath him, sending Roy tumbling to the ground. FUCK. His nose smacked the side of the end table and was followed by warm blood gushing from his nostrils. I  fucking knew better. I fucking...oh, shit. Ouch...

Roy rolled over onto his back, blood dripping down the back of his throat. He pinched the bridge of his nose and winced, remembering a similar pain that made it ache. Several years before on the farm back in Oklahoma, a piece of farming equipment had malfunctioned and backed into his nose. He still managed to work the entire day bailing and plowing hay with blood continually dripping down his face despite the occasional dab of a kerchief. He ran to town to buy a pack of beer for him and his brother and spent the night looking at the stars. One of the last decent memories Roy had with members of his family before he left for Los Angeles.

He couldn't bare to look at ceilings any more. He rolled over onto his side, burying his nose in the crook of his elbow. His arms were heavy and tingled. He still lacked upper body strength and Roy new it would need to change.

Roy reached out barely snatching his previously worn shirt between his middle and index finger. He absentmindedly wiped his bloody nose on it before sitting up against the wall to put it on. His fingers shook too much to button. It was probably from drinking whisky on an empty stomach, but Roy didn't even think about it. He felt light-headed again. A spinning feeling. He should've never got out of bed. Or tried to walk. Or think. Or exist.

Groaning, Roy pulled himself up into his wheelchair. He didn't bother positioning his feet. He wheeled over in front of the full-length mirror. His hair was rustled and greasy and stood up on end. Days stubble covered his jawline. His slender nose was swollen and blood stained his white button down shirt. No energy. No reason. Half a man staring back at him with sunken grey eyes. He was paler, thinner, and still so tired.

There was nothing to eat in the icebox but oranges on the kitchen table. A full ashtray and an empty carton of cigarettes. Another empty bottle of whisky. Newspaper from weeks ago. Unopened mail that Roy knew he would never tear to read.

Roy clutched the ashtray in his fist before throwing it against the antique wallpaper. He screamed.

What sort of fresh hell is this?

He peered down at the ash covered broken glass, a relatively slender and sharp piece catching his eye. Roy examined it gingerly, following every groove in the shard before thrusting it into his left thigh.

Nothing.

He rammed the shard of glass deeper.

NOTHING.

It cut through his trousers as Roy sliced open his inner thigh multiple times. It was a sickening tear,  fabric and skin.

Please...just let me feel something.

Roy inched up his sleeve and slashed the fleshy part of his forearm. An immediate sting followed and warm dark blood began to pool out.

A small smile formed on Roy's lips. A sensation. Pain. A feeling. He wasn't sure how deep he had cut. The adrenaline rush had overwhelmed him. He took off his shirt and wrapped it around his arm, but it immediately became saturated with blood.

"Oh, shit."

This was a terrible mistake. Panic flooded over Roy as he realized that he must've cut through the vein.

"Shit. Shit. Shit."

"Roy."

Roy stopped breathing and froze. He swore the door had been locked, but Alice probably didn't even bother.

Yes, someone was in the room with him. Watching him. And as he slowly looked up to the right he realized how familiar the voice had been.

It was MacKenzie.