Pagurus

 He woke alone to the smell of someone else’s sweat, a fit of self-medication for anxiety ending predictably. He slithered arms through the bedclothes until he found the razor blade, his failsafe. Restoring it to a nest of tissues in his breast pocket, he considered this place an improvement on the public bathrooms and roadside bushes of prior occasions.

 He drew himself out of bed. Ate at someone else’s table from a fridge of things he didn’t like. In the bathroom mirror he found a curious old man staring at him. Drew a smile on his wrist and noted the success of his pain. This is definitely who he was. He should try accepting it for once.