He'd barely eaten. Drugs always made him feel sick to his stomach. That, in combination with lingering affects (WHY weren't they wearing off? What medication had they found that could hit him so hard and so long?) made him sluggish and clumsy. He shied from being touched, flinching away from hands, light, and people, but of course it didn't matter... they drove him into another room, patronizing him the entire way. That nurse's voice was like nails on a chalkboard. Every time she opened her mouth, he felt himself get a little crazier.
The room was... too comfortable. Too warm, too many colors. When he felt like this, his ability to cope with his surroundings was limited to surroundings that consisted of (white, white, white, white with door. White, white, white, white with door). The whole thing made him want to claw at his skin, but he couldn't feel his fingers on his arms and he was fairly sure his nails were worn down to the quick.
He succumbed to the drive of his instinct. Instead of sitting on the couch, he climbed up onto the back of it and huddled there, arms around his knees, scratching the back of his hand. He'd been doing that all day. The skin was raw, red, and precariously close to bleeding.