[h3][right][color=ADADAD]Silas’ Catharsis[/color][/right][/h3]

[color=ADADAD]Music, noise, people, darkness, vices. Sounds like a good time to some. Though for Silas right now it feels like he’s getting hit with a high that’s past its peak into something that leaves him feeling sick and upset. Doesn’t even feel good when he presses a hand to his forehead with eyes clenched tight to fight off a dull pain at the edges, almost stumbling through the metal doors to what he swears is a backalley nightclub with heavy steps as if he’s on something. 

He’s not. 
Or is he? He forgot.

Last time he took all of it and it ended at the ER and hasn’t felt right since. Does he still have some left over? 
Hell, he doesn’t fucking remember.


The thoughts and the buzzing in his head eat at him like rabid wild dogs at his heels, annoying and grating. The music in the club itself isn’t that loud, unless it is. Is it? People talk and laugh too loud all the same anyway, all an irritating orchestra upon his nerves.

The young man forces himself to trudge through people who mean nothing to him and honestly seem formless to him but he couldn’t care any less about that with his destination to the bar out near the other end of the place, quieter. He always does this, needs quiet corners even though he curses himself to go out into public spaces alone. Nowhere ever feels good, but if there's the drinks and drugs? It's tolerable.

Nearly collapsing into a bar stool at the counter, he leans onto the surface of it, not really thinking about much else aside from wanting something to make the pain ease, always looking for something to numb himself. And yet, he doesn’t make the effort to get the bartender’s attention to earn the sweet sweet substance to do the numbing, instead silently lowering his hand from under his mop of dirty blonde hair and looking down at the countertop at the way his tattooed knuckles seem bruised raw under the dim bar lighting overhead away from the rest of the blacklight overlay in the building. Real in some way.

His brows furrow at the juvenile neon pattern bandaids on his fingers as they curl against the smooth glass surface, flexing his digits to look at the designs more after a second. 
When the hell did he put those on. 

A glance at his wrists peeking from under his worn flannel shirt serving as a light coat, some more cutesy neon bandaids wrapped onto his skin makes him frown.

He feels so out of sorts. Dizzy, pained, tired…

Is he dead? Do the dead still bruise and need silly little star bandaids? He has no idea. He’s not dead. Surely. He'd be betraying someone if he were.[/color]