Please Don't Look

Eyes stinging when he closed his eyes, reminder of the tears that had blotched his skin. The next time his eyes opened, startled by the sound of his alarm going off from his small fip phone on his nightstand. Blinking sleepily, instead of gasping for breath as he would normally. Nightmares lurking right behind his eyes lids had gone away for a few sweet, wonderful hours.

"Shisa, up" instantly, the large head disappeared only to hear the groan of the bed from the heavy animal taking up the end of it. Getting up, needles moving under his skin as he forced himself to move. Turning off the blaring alarm, getting ready for work. Uncapping the numerous prescription bottles that he was told to take, magic pills that were supposed to help him function like a normal human being. How could they expect to make a human out of him?

They all saw him as some becon of human ability to survive. Surviving isn't that hard. Living is.

The psychologist was so sure he would get better if he was allowed to live on his own, been given a chance. Well Sesome did prefer this, to not be watched. To not have people touching, or looking at him helplessly when he had these fits. Or worse, the disappointment and apologetic ones. He'd prefer disgust. Disgust and Lust. Those he were used to, those he could handle. Most of his life was a hazy mess of pain and fear. Structured by being enslaved, not by chains or even locks.

Now enslaved by echos of his past, being brought out of his haze, and being told he is somehow some hero for surviving. Heros help people, he has never helped anyone in his whole life.

Except Shisa, he had saved Shisa. And Shisa saved him on a daily basis. Shisa got him to be able to walk outside sometimes, at sunset. Got him to go outside more because he had to. Shisa relied on Sesome, and somehow that made it easier. Made living easier. All the doctors and people told him he needed to help himself, that he deserved to have a good life. And they would help but he had to help himself. Sesome was not used to being someone. He was little more than an object to a group of cruel people. And a strange, weird person to everyone else.

The End

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