He's seeing him more often now, the figment of his nightmares wrapped in normality. A flash of blood-spattered blue, then a flash of something else, something metallic, and then Henry's
blood leaking out onto the floor, and all he can think is damn, I just mopped that.
And then someone would ask him something and he'd be standing there again. Before the flashes. And nothing had happened at all- how could he have thought all that was happening?
His dreams are somewhat better- at least until he wakes up. He dreams of 302 and how happy he was there. There are no cracks, no holes, no wall full of screaming twisted infants. There's just him in his home, content to watch the world go by. He feels sick when he sees it for what it is in the morning.
The thorazine's not helping. Well, it is, but just a little tiny bit- just enough to keep him from stopping with it altogether. Just enough to give him the hope that maybe...somehow...it'll start doing something
because it really did seem to work the first couple of days he tried it. He's being very good and not taking more than he's supposed to, and he thinks that should count for something.. Henry has no idea that the doctor who prescribed it to him gives it out like candy (as if it will help anything and everything), and that what Henry wants are the side effects, the temporary relaxation, the sleep...he could get this from something far less toxic in the long term, but he just hasn't thought about it. He tries not to think of much, now.
They make everything a little more dull, at least. That's what he needs right now. Something mundane. Definitely not this new idea that at any moment, another version of Walter from another fucking universe might drop in on them and decide to finish what the other one started.... He doubted that the god thing would care very much which
Walter Sullivan completed the ritual.
It would be so easy, wouldn't it? A slash of numbers on his chest and it'd be done.
He tries not to think about that. He can't
think about that- he has to make sure Eileen is okay...she's more affected by this than he is, anyway. She's the one who was out there talking to him, who was fighting with Liz over him...god, that sounds stupid even thinking it. But she's the one always doing things. Like always, Henry's the one sitting back and watching it happen.
And he needs to be normal, for himself as much as for her. He's not happy with any of the photos he's taken since they came back, so he has to be able to work. He can't work if he's hallucinating all the time. And if he can't work, he can't pay for things like those pills that will
work some day, damn it.
There's a lot of times when he's perfectly happy, really grateful, just to be alive. When the air is sweet and he's glad to have Eileen to talk to, and Liz and Henry to fall back on if times get hard. But sometimes...sometimes when times get hard, he can't bother anyone about it. Because all he can see are endless days of mindless work and always that possibility that he
will come back and end it all in one stroke. And maybe Henry won't even mind by then.
That's not something other people can make better, no matter how much they care.
He just has to hope that things will be better tomorrow. That he'll see the shapes and colors he used to see, not the vacant smile and the empty green eyes.
Things have to be better tomorrow.