When Jamison wakes, it’s with a jolt. He lies in the dark heat of his bedroom, his entire body on fire with the lingering pain of the curse from his nightmare. He doesn't know what day it is or how long he’s slept. He looks to the door fearfully, his face covered in a thick grime of dried sweat and he pushes the sweat-wet linen off his legs and contorts his body in a way so that his feet hit the cool hardwood floor first. His muscled arms strain as he rests his elbows on top of his knees and he slowly buries his face into his hands, trying to wipe away the dreams and the guilt and the heaviness that, he knows, will never leave. He is aware that there is no retribution for men like him, at least not after what he's seen and not after what he’s done. You could either accept it, try to reconcile it with the rest of your values and ideas, or let it destroy you altogether. Some things were easier to reconcile than others though.

It was all hitting him in a way that made his knees buckle, both out of unbearable grief and incredible self-loathing. What was crippling him wasn't the ghosts of Sheila or Mia that whispered in the wind, but the absence of the person who had promised him forever. Only Anna had caused this pain. And Jamison wondered how much of his life had been a pathetic illusion. He raised his hands to his ears because all he could hear was everything his brain had been screaming at him the last three days. “Thought she loved you, dumb fucking idiot. Could’ve gotten yourself killed sleeping with that murderer, but you’re alone for good now and should have seen it coming. It’s better this way. Loneliness is what you deserve. Don’t worry, you’ll live. Pathetic, aren’t you?”

It feels like someone’s lifted a hand and landed a deft slap across his cheek, and they’re glowering down over him with their features distorted. He feels his eyes roll back in his head and the colors all blur together as his neck spasms and he rubs his cheek raw against the flat of his palm. There’s agony that starts in and under his skin, and melts through to his muscles and then his bones and it pumps in his blood with a pulse. Jamison’s head lolls between consciousness and a dark, deep sleep that his body wants to go to so to escape the resonating pain. The minutes pass by like hours and he tries to move, but his fingers twitch and his bottom lip quivers. There’s a sinking feeling in the pit of his stomach as he fights back the urge of senseless sulking, though he succumbs to the act anyways — making his way back into the bed and drawing all of the curtains up over his head.

When Jamison wakes up, he is accosted by a chipper amount of blinding, bright sunlight. He covers his eyes with his forearm, hazy consciousness coming in waves, and he feels the numbness of his own face and the familiarity of the sheets he’s tangled across his legs. "Not even awake for five minutes and you're already sneering," he mutters to himself in heightened annoyance, reaching out a hand to blindly search over the contents of a nightstand. As he lifts the now discovered phone up to his face, eyes adjusting to the screen, he nearly scoffs at the 32 missed calls and 56 unread text messages. Jamison has been asleep for two consecutive days and appears dead to the outside world. The diagnosis? Depression and an affinity for his own miserable loneliness.