Setting
INK
The mirgaine woke Sonny up before his phone did. He sat up on the bed, confused as to what time it was or when he went to sleep last night. He looked down at himself, and realized that he was still wearing the same clothes in which he arrived in. He must have passed out last night, his Insomnia once again got the better of him. Unlocking the screen on his phone by tapping in some numbers, he looked at the time, which was 6:30 in the morning. "Fucking great," he spat out quietly, and stood up, kicking off his shoes, which were still on his feet. The migraine, was pulsing in his temples and wrapping around the back of his head was not merciful; he had to find some pain killers. Making his way down the hall as quietly as possible, he wondered into the bathroom, then opened the medicine cabinet. Much to his relief, his cure was there, the little Advil bottle. Popping off the top, he swallowed two of them, then brushed his teeth to get rid of the weird taste the medicine left behind. He then looked in the mirror and grimaced; he looked like absolute shit.
Deciding it would be best to take a shower, he went back to his room, got clothes to change in, then jogged back to the bathroom, closing the door behind him. The hot water of the shower woke him up better than any energy drink would have. After he was done, he quickly slid on clothes, except for a shirt, leaving the skin of his bare chest glowing in the lights of the bathroom. He analyzed himself in the mirror, then shook his damp hair. It was going to have to be styled later. The tattoo on his right arm caught his attention as it always did, and he looked down at the intricate designs. He first started the tattoo at 16, then kept going back over a series of several months. Whoever said that tattoos can become an addiction was not lying, for he was always thinking of ways to make it better; more detailed. But you can only fit so much in one package. He gave himself one more glance in the steamy mirror before walking out of the bathroom, and back to his room.
Deciding it would be best to take a shower, he went back to his room, got clothes to change in, then jogged back to the bathroom, closing the door behind him. The hot water of the shower woke him up better than any energy drink would have. After he was done, he quickly slid on clothes, except for a shirt, leaving the skin of his bare chest glowing in the lights of the bathroom. He analyzed himself in the mirror, then shook his damp hair. It was going to have to be styled later. The tattoo on his right arm caught his attention as it always did, and he looked down at the intricate designs. He first started the tattoo at 16, then kept going back over a series of several months. Whoever said that tattoos can become an addiction was not lying, for he was always thinking of ways to make it better; more detailed. But you can only fit so much in one package. He gave himself one more glance in the steamy mirror before walking out of the bathroom, and back to his room.