Drabble 1

He could hardly breathe; it felt like his insides had been transformed into ripped, shriveled balloons and hollow space, and no matter how much air he took in, he always felt starved for oxygen. Really, he was always generally starving, that weakness applied to his other organs, and his stomach was hardly in a position to hold anything. His eyes had been shadowed from below by creeping nightmares and a simple lack of the ability to sleep for more than an hour or two at any given time.

He curled himself into a limp ball under the blankets, ignore his limbs apparent distaste for even that much movement. He was cold, freezing, all the time. If he could scrape together a little warmth, it would be worth a few stiff twinges. He even tucked in his head, cutting himself away from the light in his bedroom.

The need for rest was something he could accept, but it bothered him more than he would openly admit that he was still doing so poorly. He had been quite useless by his own estimation for most of the past few weeks, and for whatever reason, he was remaining that way. He had to offer something, and if all that could be was forcing himself to act like he possessed any strength to avoid worrying his current caretakers more than he already had, then he would save his efforts for that. Stubbornly trying to force himself back on his feet would only be counterproductive. He would just have to be a little patient. He could deal with it.