It's dark.
Paris sits, slumped over in the black.
The shower is running, he doesn't remember turning it on but it's warm on his neck.
He can't see. At least not well. There's a light from next door shining toward the window, dimly lighting the room.
Paris' hands are turned up in front of him, his arms heavy and numb, swimming in the small pool of water slowly growing between his legs.
He can hear music. He turned it on, he remembers.
The tune isn't haunting or melancholy, it's one of his favourite jazz groups playing. He would usually sing along but his lips are weighted and his throat is closed, his chin clamped to his chest causing him to take shallow but long breaths.
'Where am I?' he wonders to himself. He tries to open his eyes but he can't bring himself to. His mind pulls him back and won't let him use his body.
'We are at rest,' his mind protests 'Let us be.'
So he does. He breathes deeply and his chin cracks with the rising chest, water blocks up his nose so he opens his mouth wide, his mind will let him have that much at least. Sipping small drops of water is almost unavoidable.
Paris is tired and his mind agrees.
'I can't.' he repeats this again and again.
'I know we can't. Just sit. This is fine.'
'But...' he stops trying. The water drops hard on the back of his skull so he lurches forward and lets it pummel his back for a while. It feels good on his neglected body.
It feels good to let go and be. He is fine. He is there.
And he can't think.
He can't go.
He isn't there.
'No,' he tells himself 'No we're not.'
