What was a normal day? Do you have to be working? Lounging? Was it the meals that you eat or hobbies you do? Nothing Hugo thought of satiated his frustration. It was haunting him. He wanted to know. He needed to be normal. Nothing special and nothing specific.

Just something to blend his being with so that all you were left with was a lifeless grey ooze at the end of the day. And what better way to start than to have a normal day.

"Routine." mutters Hugo as he sits on the edge of his bed with his head in his hands.

"Normal days have routines don't they?"

So he stands up and starts pacing the length of the room. He never looks up and only stares at his feet. He starts to scratch and rub at his already raw forearms. Long fingernails raking over a myriad of scars and scabs in various stages of healing.

A gaunt face with a deathly palor listlessly stares at the ground. Nothing catches the attention of his dead eyes. Bloodshot with deep bags and a sickly yellow hue. No soul could be seen behind those terrible eyes. As if they've given up trying to observe and interpret the world.

"Working out is a pretty normal routine."

Long hair shiny with grease sways across his eyes and brush his shoulders. Hugo's pacing is slow and quiet never causing the floor to creak. It would be more apt to call it sneaking back and forth rather than pacing. There's a tension in his shoulders. A sort of black dread wafting from the heavy expectation of being found.

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"Soreness could help with sleeping."

Black and blue skin is pulled tight from walking tearing scabs along his legs. Blood and pus weep from dozens of scratches that sprawl across his body. The bruises are in the shape of disproportionate hands; thin fingers that circle his whole thigh or handprints where the fingers match holes in the flesh.

"No writing no journal."

The room reflects Hugo's body in disrepair. The walls, floor, and ceiling are scratched to all hell, yet the scoring is oddly similar to script. The longer you'd stare at the scratches the less and less random it appears yet the more sinister it becomes.

"I miss sleeping."

Soot and coagulated blood blight every surface hinting at the contours of monstrous bodies and limbs. There are no mirrors and the only window is treated with the same chaos as the rest of the room.

"Three meals a day is a must."

Like the carvings, upon closer inspection, the stains and scoring on the window hint at a larger design. A wide lipless mouth lined with needle-like teeth and tentacles all the way down its esophagus. Eyes crying blood dominate every surface around the mouth and seem to glare at whoever brave or stupid enough to view the defiled glass.

"Of course, cooking is a routine."

Then Hugo stopped and looked at his hands. They told much of the same story as the rest of his body. Cracked, torn, or missing nails. Bleeding wounds along the joints and dried blood in the creases of his palm.

"As long as it's something because I don't think I can go on for much longer....why can't I be normal?"