Work Text:
He lies on his side. He feels vaguely nauseous. He doesn't want to move.
He lies there, in the dark, on the soft, warm mattress, head propped on a pillow, breathing in, and out, limbs heavy, each breath a lead weight. He wishes he could just... drift off into nothing. Cease existing. Stop thinking, stop feeling, slip into endless oblivion, nonexistent and empty as the void.
It doesn't hurt. Not in the traditional sense. He is simply... tired. Weary. Exhausted. Without meaning or purpose.
Still. Lifeless.
The future looms, as bleak as the dull grayness of the wall.
Callum exists.