Timothy sat on the ground in the corner of his room, brooding with a cigarette hanging from his mouth despite the ban on smoking indoors in this facility. He was an expert at smuggling things, just not controlling himself.
As he thought about everything he could've said, and everything he had, he muttered "Sorry," into the air, practically to nobody, but in his head somebody deserved to hear it.
He took out a small, orange bottle from his pocket and opened it up, taking a few pills and swallowing them. He was only supposed to take one, but Timothy thought that taking a few more helped his hallucinations, even though the nurse had told him multiple times to stop.
Dark spots under his eyes showed his lack of sleep, despite the constant medication he was shoving down his throat, and wrinkles from his constant frown and furrowed brows went deep into his pale skin. Timothy's glasses laid in his pocket, sitting unused for months even though his eyesight was clearly worsening. His eyes looked spaced out and unstable, staring out into nothing as if he was interested.
He tapped the wooden ground with his dirty fingers, thinking sternly about his past. His brother's words were always circling around in the back of his head, no matter what was happening.