The stranger in the alley yells something that could be oh no or maybe, worse, I know and that's about when Eliot decides it doesn't matter which because he knows with absolute certainty that he's fucked. So fucked that a perfect stranger stopped by just to let him know how fucked he is.
The next time he looks the guy is gone. Could be he was never there to start with. Could be none of this is actually happening.
The tightness in his chest could be something else. Maybe right now he's having a cardiac event on another stranger's floor because he lost control again, shot up in someone's dirty kitchen, did too much because he didn't want to come down and now his brain is sending him on a tour of deep-sea tenement hell, where people appear just to remind him how truly, madly, deeply fucked he is. This is probably a metaphor for something. He doesn't know what but he's sure it's unflattering.
He wants to think there are no stakes to this because it isn't fucking happening but his body refuses to stand, help him reach the ladder so he can inch a little closer to the ground. He crawls, the metal grate of the fire escape is blistering hot under his hands and groaning with every movement. He needs to turn to get down the ladder if he's not going to stand and his stomach clenches at the thought.
He closes his eyes, opens them because that just makes him feel the tremors running through the building more acutely, turns one degree at a time and backs up until he can fit his foot against the first rung. This is worse than the grate, he decides, down one step. He feels like something hanging from a cab driver's rearview mirror.
☆ﾟ*･｡ﾟᕕ༼ •́ Д •̀ ༽ᕗ CW: drugs & also dissociation is very a thing!
The next time he looks the guy is gone. Could be he was never there to start with. Could be none of this is actually happening.
The tightness in his chest could be something else. Maybe right now he's having a cardiac event on another stranger's floor because he lost control again, shot up in someone's dirty kitchen, did too much because he didn't want to come down and now his brain is sending him on a tour of deep-sea tenement hell, where people appear just to remind him how truly, madly, deeply fucked he is. This is probably a metaphor for something. He doesn't know what but he's sure it's unflattering.
He wants to think there are no stakes to this because it isn't fucking happening but his body refuses to stand, help him reach the ladder so he can inch a little closer to the ground. He crawls, the metal grate of the fire escape is blistering hot under his hands and groaning with every movement. He needs to turn to get down the ladder if he's not going to stand and his stomach clenches at the thought.
He closes his eyes, opens them because that just makes him feel the tremors running through the building more acutely, turns one degree at a time and backs up until he can fit his foot against the first rung. This is worse than the grate, he decides, down one step. He feels like something hanging from a cab driver's rearview mirror.