A l e x Garcia
Outfit - #3a0a4d
When he finally did sleep, he had nightmares. Running for his life though the streets of Flagstaff, Arizona, from something he couldn't see, but was just behind him. When he woke, the realization that he hadn't visited his mother in years hit him, and he felt like crying. He wasn't sure if he was ready for the last conversation with his mother to be the last they'd had: yelling at each other about how selfish they were. He checked his phone, though it wasn't the most fun with half a pair of glasses. He didn't know what he'd hoped for, but a text from Phoenix wasn't it. The message made Alex feel like he'd missed something, but then again, Alex didn't remember most of what had happened the night before. Be it trauma, or the fact that he'd spent most of it in some sort of incorporeal form, but Alex only really remembered meeting Cas, and then crying in Oliver's arms. Everything between was a blur. He ignored the text, deciding to revisit it later, when he felt more like himself. When that would be, he didn't know.
He sat around for a long while, trying to decide just what he was going to do. He briefly considered trying to slip out and go home, but the entire point of being at the clinic was so that Oliver- and, Alex assumed, Oliver's mother- could keep an eye on him. He doubted he could pull it off, anyway. He decided to get up, face the day, and potentially a handful of virtual to literal strangers. He became aware a a faint throbbing in his head, it had probably been there the entire time, but he hadn't noticed it until he stood up. "Fucking ghosts..." He mumbled to himself, almost as if to prove he had a voice. To prove he was still himself. He paused at the door before leaving the room, he didn't know why, but he felt entirely unprepared. For what, he couldn't tell you. The knowledge that he was already behind on his daily water consumption was, ultimately, what got him through the door, and on his way to where he thought the kitchen was.