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Description
He's done it before, must be about three times now, but it still never gets any easier. Easier for him, or easier for me. What happens when I'm not there? Not there to pick up the pieces?

~~

Order and routine. His whole life balances around perfection of a plan, and the need to see that plan through till the end, undeviating, unchanging, perfection. It's what keeps him stable now more than anything because he's learned how to channel his energies, how to make use of that brilliant mind. And now, everything must have a set routine to it. The whole day needs to run exactly the same as the last; breakfast the same every morning at the same time, clients at specific intervals, even his insults seems to come in a pattern when not provoked. But it's when that plan goes wrong that thing start to deteriorate.

The first time it happened he'd missed something from his routine that day. I'd come home at a normal time to find him sitting at the dining room table, alone in the darkness, just staring at the wall. An empty bottle of scotch stood on the table by his side and his lips were just about moving. To anyone who wasn't used to his mannerisms, they wouldn't have noticed, but I knew when he was slipping, and then it was clear his mind was almost over the edge and he was almost in a trance. However, I managed to wake him quite quickly and I spent the night simply watching over him as he slept or what was probably the first time in a few days. It was clear then that he wasn't as stable as anyone seemed to think, or as what I had lulled myself into believing.

Even though he would never admit it, he was sick and it was becoming beyond even his control.

~~

This time it was worse. I'd been away for the weekend on a job. It was something I'd protested and we'd fought on countless occasions before the day but he was too stubborn to ever say that he was wrong. So, I left for Russia that Friday night after spending the whole day making sure everything was prepared for him for the few days I would be gone. Naturally he didn't help, but he never did, always happy to watch people do the work for him instead of getting his hands dirty, then then that's just how he was.

I'd left him in a good mood, stood by the window practicing with his violin. He was composing I think, the sign of inspiration and the rare, joyous thoughts that sometimes came to him when he'd had a good period. We'd be planning a robbery for quite a few weeks before along with the job I was going off to, and it was with the last remaining details of the simple task that I left him alone with. It was the usual process anyway to let him check over everything for a day or two just to make sure he was happy. But somehow, somewhere, it got out of hand.

I don't know exactly what happened or what set it off, but I came home the Sunday night to find him screaming at something.

Ruffled and sweating and bloody, he looked a mess. Deep bags hung under his eyes and his whole body shivered as he stood as if he had a virus, but there was no fever, no coughing, no symptoms of anything like that. It'd taken me a while to calm him down, having to actually forcibly pin him against the wall to keep him from hurt me or himself, but I managed. However, he didn't come round, or at least not right away. He looked at me, crimson eyes bloodshot and manic, then stepped away and walked into the living room and sat in one of the chairs. I followed, slowly, not wanting to spook him anymore than he already was. But when I got there he was already talking to someone else. His eyes were fixed on the wall in front of him, but it wasn't the wall he was concentrating on, more like the space just before it. Empty space.

I tried calling out his name, tried getting him to look at me, but he was in a trance again, only deeper this time, deeper than I'd ever seen him before. So all I could do was sit there and wait for him. He would glance in my direction every now and then and I'd try to get a response from him, and finally it paid off. He stopped talking, stopped focusing on thin air and looked at me, properly, eyes actually shining with life once more.

I took him to bed then, got him settled then walked down stairs to make myself a drink. It was then I'd taken time to notice the damage. The walls, once pristine, were now stained in multiple places with what looked to be alcohol and blood. There were also dents and cracks where his fists had met the plaster, and finally a few bullet holes for good measure. There was smashed glass on the floor as well as notes from previous jobs spread all over the flat. There was a knife too, bloodied and abandoned on the kitchen table.

~~

The next morning he came downstairs at his usual time, dressed in the usual Westwood suit –grey this morning- and sat down at the table where breakfast was waiting for him. He never usually talked over breakfast so the silence wasn't unusual. Actually, nothing about it was unusual; it was as if everything from the past weekend was gone from his mind, as if I was the one who had been hallucinating. But then as he reached for the jug of milk placed in the middle of the table, beneath shifted sleeves I could see bandages wrapped round his lower arm.

~~

What happens when I he sends me away for long I don't know. But what I do know is that he needs help. Now.

Description
He's done it before, must be about three times now, but it still never gets any easier. Easier for him, or easier for me. What happens when I'm not there? Not there to pick up the pieces?

~~

Order and routine. His whole life balances around perfection of a plan, and the need to see that plan through till the end, undeviating, unchanging, perfection. It's what keeps him stable now more than anything because he's learned how to channel his energies, how to make use of that brilliant mind. And now, everything must have a set routine to it. The whole day needs to run exactly the same as the last; breakfast the same every morning at the same time, clients at specific intervals, even his insults seems to come in a pattern when not provoked. But it's when that plan goes wrong that thing start to deteriorate.

The first time it happened he'd missed something from his routine that day. I'd come home at a normal time to find him sitting at the dining room table, alone in the darkness, just staring at the wall. An empty bottle of scotch stood on the table by his side and his lips were just about moving. To anyone who wasn't used to his mannerisms, they wouldn't have noticed, but I knew when he was slipping, and then it was clear his mind was almost over the edge and he was almost in a trance. However, I managed to wake him quite quickly and I spent the night simply watching over him as he slept or what was probably the first time in a few days. It was clear then that he wasn't as stable as anyone seemed to think, or as what I had lulled myself into believing.

Even though he would never admit it, he was sick and it was becoming beyond even his control.

~~

This time it was worse. I'd been away for the weekend on a job. It was something I'd protested and we'd fought on countless occasions before the day but he was too stubborn to ever say that he was wrong. So, I left for Russia that Friday night after spending the whole day making sure everything was prepared for him for the few days I would be gone. Naturally he didn't help, but he never did, always happy to watch people do the work for him instead of getting his hands dirty, then then that's just how he was.

I'd left him in a good mood, stood by the window practicing with his violin. He was composing I think, the sign of inspiration and the rare, joyous thoughts that sometimes came to him when he'd had a good period. We'd be planning a robbery for quite a few weeks before along with the job I was going off to, and it was with the last remaining details of the simple task that I left him alone with. It was the usual process anyway to let him check over everything for a day or two just to make sure he was happy. But somehow, somewhere, it got out of hand.

I don't know exactly what happened or what set it off, but I came home the Sunday night to find him screaming at something.

Ruffled and sweating and bloody, he looked a mess. Deep bags hung under his eyes and his whole body shivered as he stood as if he had a virus, but there was no fever, no coughing, no symptoms of anything like that. It'd taken me a while to calm him down, having to actually forcibly pin him against the wall to keep him from hurt me or himself, but I managed. However, he didn't come round, or at least not right away. He looked at me, crimson eyes bloodshot and manic, then stepped away and walked into the living room and sat in one of the chairs. I followed, slowly, not wanting to spook him anymore than he already was. But when I got there he was already talking to someone else. His eyes were fixed on the wall in front of him, but it wasn't the wall he was concentrating on, more like the space just before it. Empty space.

I tried calling out his name, tried getting him to look at me, but he was in a trance again, only deeper this time, deeper than I'd ever seen him before. So all I could do was sit there and wait for him. He would glance in my direction every now and then and I'd try to get a response from him, and finally it paid off. He stopped talking, stopped focusing on thin air and looked at me, properly, eyes actually shining with life once more.

I took him to bed then, got him settled then walked down stairs to make myself a drink. It was then I'd taken time to notice the damage. The walls, once pristine, were now stained in multiple places with what looked to be alcohol and blood. There were also dents and cracks where his fists had met the plaster, and finally a few bullet holes for good measure. There was smashed glass on the floor as well as notes from previous jobs spread all over the flat. There was a knife too, bloodied and abandoned on the kitchen table.

~~

The next morning he came downstairs at his usual time, dressed in the usual Westwood suit –grey this morning- and sat down at the table where breakfast was waiting for him. He never usually talked over breakfast so the silence wasn't unusual. Actually, nothing about it was unusual; it was as if everything from the past weekend was gone from his mind, as if I was the one who had been hallucinating. But then as he reached for the jug of milk placed in the middle of the table, beneath shifted sleeves I could see bandages wrapped round his lower arm.

~~

What happens when I he sends me away for long I don't know. But what I do know is that he needs help. Now.