Phil kept his eyes tightly closed, and tried not to feel the unfamiliar weight of this place pressing down on him.
He could feel his eyes burning, and he didn’t know why, because he absolutely was not going to cry. He was not. Going. To. Cry.
And when that ended up being a lie, too, he scrubbed at his cheeks with the heels of his hands until his cheeks were burning, but dry. Then he took a deep breath, and got out of bed. He was tired, exhausted, so exhausted that he felt sick, but he couldn’t sleep. No matter how long he lay there, how much he tried, every time he thought he might be falling asleep, he’d end up bolt upright, his heart pounding, something like a sob or a scream caught in his throat.
In the bathroom, he washed his face, and ran a glass of water. He took his time drinking it, his feet cold on the bathroom tile. He ignored it, anything to avoid going back to bed. The too big, too strange bed that definitely was not his.
Instead of returning to it, he picked his way across the carpet, making his way in the dim reflected light that spilled from the bathroom. He wished that there were windows, or any way to relieve the sensation of being trapped. He paused, considering the door. He glanced around, and immediately felt stupid. Still, he was breathing a little too hard, a little too fast, as he reached for the doorknob.
There was a soft beep, and Phil’s fingers jerked away from the door.
"I am sorry to startle you, Philip, but you are not supposed to leave this room without supervision."