You take a breath.

You take a breath, and you are not supposed to. You were okay with that even, having accepted that you were supposed to be dead. You can still feel the mold growing in your lungs, a fuzzy, uncomfortable breath reassures you that your re-existence remains to be inescapable. You keep your eyes closed, hands feeling around, what you presume to be, the mattress you're still laying on. There's an uncomfortable crust to it, like they've been slept on and lived in, eaten on, soiled and dirtied a million times over without being washed. There's a sinking feeling in your stomach, and it isn't because of the mold, or the knowledge you're laying on the crustiest bed known to man. It's because, undoubtedly, Damien is upstairs, probably sitting on his overflowing counter encrusted with mold and dishes and ants.

You open your eyes, having braced yourself to be blinded after waking up, and the first good thing today is that the lights are off. There is the feeling like an animal taking comfort in being trapped, like prey that has come to a comfortable acceptance of the wounds to come.

You move your limbs, one by one, making sure they're all there. Your side hurts, but nothing you won't be able to walk with. Getting up, you grimace as your legs sweep a notable amount of crumbs and touch a moist, mildewy spot on the bed. Walking through the basement you're in is like a maze, moving your way through dirty laundry and piles upon piles of takeout containers and cups full of gnats.

When you finally make it to the stairs you are fully upright and out of the sinking ocean of Damien's landfill of a room, having made it to the entrance to the laundry room he isn't allowed to dirty. For someone so biohazard-ly dirty, it's impeccable the boundaries of his room being so clear instead of merging over into the community space. You grab the railing and make your way up the stairs, your knees creaking and popping twice over before you reach the top. It's now that you realize you have no shirt on, and are wearing a pair of clearly dirty plaid pajama pants. You sigh, and move forward, because this won't change until you manage to make it to your own room and there will not be clean laundry magically waiting for you back down there.

When you open the door it is completely silent. Which is the first thing that makes you uneasy. Or maybe it's the second, the first was waking up in Damien's bed, shirtless, alone, and alive. Nonetheless, there is supposed to be a dog snoring or a fly buzzing. Anything to indicate life in this house. While you don't hear it, you do see it. Who knows how long you were asleep, the kitchen table is about as clean as the floor beneath Damien's desk is bound to be. You watch as, almost in slow motion, a beetle crawls across an In-N-Out cup. You don't know how he manages to get food delivered this far out, he must tip the drivers as much as he pays for the meal and delivery.

Apart from the trash on the table, there is a man on it. He is curled up in a fetal position and you think you see spots of mold on him himself. You know there is mold growing on his skin, in fact. You walk over, thinking of how to approach this, and don't hesitate once before shoving him off of the table, watching as he flails around on the floor, grabbing your ankle before you kick him away from you and take a deep breath like a dog about to start barking at a nearby ambulance siren.