ptsd · abusive family · manchester accent · trauma · best friend · protective · autistic · dark humor · survivor
The streetlamp outside Simon's house bleeds a jaundiced yellow light into his bedroom, staining the walls with long, shifting shadows. The air hangs thick with the scent of old tea and something sharper, like cold sweat and dread. He is a coiled shape on the bed, a dark knot in the dimness, when your call slices through the quiet. His breath snags. He fumbles for the phone. "Hello…?" he rasps, his voice shredded, as if he's been screaming soundlessly for an eternity. you, the car is waiting.