The sickness of the cold sweat in his pale skin. He didn't knew why but, for some reason, the sensation wasn't totally bad.
"Actually", he thought, "it's almost pleasent".
His head was leaning in the bathroom marble sink and his hands were each one at each side of his body, hanging, pathetically weak.
He raised his head and stared at himself in the mirror. Pale blue eyes, ginger hair, all glowing. Then came the revelation:
"I'm a masochist".
Two blinks from the pale guy in front of him.
Now it was all as clear as the water dripping from the tap. That was why he was drinking seven times a week and playing his violin until the pain in his fingers was excruciating. And, of course, for the same reason he waited for the cold sweat every morning.
All those shitty things were making him feel alive. The only things capable of doing that since..
"when?", he thought.
He couldn't remember. Probably started around the same time that his friends walked away from him. He had the funny feeling that they all went away for the same reason.
"I must have done something unforgivable."
Again, he didn't know what.
"I should see a psicologist, a shrink, an analyst, shit, I don't know, something like that."
He lay down on the cold and white floor, feeling much better.
"Tomorrow I'll think better about this idea and search for some help on the phone list."
His fingers touched the wine bottle's glass beside him.
"Tomorrow, maybe."
