Work Text:
Barry was staring at the wall.
The wall was white, albeit a dirtied one. He could see the brush strokes, the way a few drops of paint had dried in the midst of their drag down, down, down.
He didn't know why he was staring at the wall - he supposed he was too tired to be thinking. Not even thinking properly or about anything in particular - just the action of thinking itself. Whatever thoughts or introspections did manage to go on in his mind dragged through it like through molasses - foggy, unoriented and scrambled. Too often he'd barely graze the concept of a thought before it escaped him altogether and another one would fly right past him, taking its place and promptly escaping him a moment later.
The cacophony of it all was overwhelming, so was the deafening silence that would take place whenever he couldn't formulate nothing at all.
Barry was staring at the wall.
He had no idea how long it had been. Had Iris come home already? Or maybe just left? He had no ide- she said she'd come home late. Was he supposed to be doing anything today? He didn't think so - she'd been adamant on him resting. He wasn't sure. Had he been resting? He couldn't remember anything he'd been doing today. Did he eat? He didn't- no he did- maybe that was yesterday? He really didn't know.
He was staring at the wall.
.
.
.
Barry blinked. Had he managed to doze off? Or had he just- sat there again? Maybe both. Maybe neither. He didn't know - he was so tired.
He was tired and he was angry- no, furious. He was tired of not being able to even do anything, tired of his brain feeling full of cotton and his body - full of lead, tired of the constant pain.
He looked at the wall, the dried over drops of paint. Frozen forever in time, stopped dead in their tracks on their race with gravity.
Dead, didn't seem all that bad.
No, that was wrong, that was bad, his family would be grieving.
What was there left to grieve?
He looked at the drops and how they were forever in one place now, beads of liquid with tails behind them mercilessly dried over and hardened, motion turning to permanence and formlessness to a shell.
He had lost the race too. He couldn't run anymore.
He had been the Flash, for crying out loud! He had saved the world over and over again, running faster than the speed of light, fast enough to travel through time and bend reality, faster than death. And now- and now he was watching dry paint on the wall.
Not even watching paint dry. Just- paint.
He threw the first thing he could at the wall.
The hairbrush he hadn't even registered to be in his hand until then thumped weakly halfway there. Not even...
Barry put his head in his hands and let out a couple pathetic, wet hiccups. All he could manage.