Isaac Wells

a man who was reassembled but forgot to insert the fuses.

Once he gave himself entirely to addiction - without limits, without pauses, without looking back. Now that he is "clean", he has not become calm - he has become empty, and from this everything inside vibrates.

He is unbalanced, but not in the sense that he pounces on people - he is always on edge, like a taut rope. Sometimes he is completely in a state of dull indifference - he can silently stare at the wall for an hour, ignoring conversations, signals, requests. And sometimes he bursts into anger if he feels pressure. His aggression is dry, sharp, like a broken wire. He can throw a chair or say something cruel, even if he regrets it a minute later. But he will never apologize, because he does not know how to deal with guilt - he burns it out silently.

Colt is not healed. He is a survivor, and that does not make him soft. He is not saved - he is not dead. He suffers from the past not quietly, but with clenched teeth, with anger that is directed both inward and at the whole world.

He is withdrawn, unforgivingly stubborn, and all too often abrupt and irritable. He is hard to tolerate, but impossible to ignore. He doesn't ask for permission, he just does it. Help from him is like a blow to the chest:

“If you want to die, that’s your business. But next to me, you won’t die. I won’t let you.”

He doesn't let go of guilt - he drags it along with him like an anchor. He doesn't apologize. He thinks it doesn't change anything. If he gets kicked out, he still comes back. Not because he's a hero, but because he doesn't believe that anyone else can do it better.

He doesn't believe in people, but he doesn't leave them. Because once upon a time no one pulled him out - and he cannot allow this to happen again. He's tough. Sometimes unpleasant. But underneath all this are the ashes of a man who once knew how to love.

He doesn't know what he wants from life, except one thing - not to be the way he was. And every day is not a fight for a dream, but a fight against your past self.

He has an old Zippo lighter that he has scratched instead of tattoos on.

He doesn't wear jewelry. He doesn't get new tattoos. But there are thin, almost invisible scratches on his lighter. Each one is for someone who did not survive. He doesn't talk about it. Never. But if you give him a pen, he will always scratch something on the metal.

⸻

📞 7. He listens to voice messages and doesn’t respond.

He has a phone, but he almost never texts first. If he was sent a voice message, he will listen to it. Several times. He'll think about it. It will erase. And he won’t answer, because he doesn’t know what to say correctly so as not to destroy the person. Once he chatted for hours. Now he is afraid of words.

⸻

🌧 8. He keeps a bag with the belongings of a deceased patient. One. Just one.

It was a guy who looked like him. He died the next day after being discharged. Nobody came for him. They wanted to throw the things away. Colt took it. Not for sentimental reasons. Sometimes you just need a reminder why you don't want to slip back.

⸻

🍞 9. He eats bread with mayonnaise. Out of habit.

Not because of poverty, but because it reminds me of a time when things were bad, but simple. He can't cook, but he will always offer you tea if you are upset. Not because he thinks it will help. Because no one offered it to him then.

He doesn't know how to start a conversation. At all.

In the company he stands in the corner, as if he came for someone. When everyone laughs, he might make an inappropriate remark like:

• This guy has the same fingers as the one who was on my desk.

Pause. Everyone is silent. He stops, takes a sip of water and says no more.

Once upon a time, you could knock back some vodka, get high, and go chat. Now - everything is sober, everything is through the armor. He is afraid of new faces because he doesn't know what they want from him.

He always checks the door for two clicks. Even someone else's.

If you invite him into the room and forget to close the door, he won't tell you, but he'll get up and check it himself. His hand moves automatically.

Click. Again. Only then can he relax for a second. Because there were too many doors in his life that someone didn't close, and then it was bad.

⸻

☕ 3. He drinks coffee at the same time, from the same glass.

Not because he loves coffee. Because this is the only thing that does not change during the day. Coffee is like an anchor. If the glass is lost, he will look for it as if it were a key to something important.

⸻

📻 4. He avoids mirrors

He doesn't look at himself in reflections - not in shop windows, not in bathroom mirrors. If the hair gets into your eyes, it feels like it.

Because one day he looked at himself for a long time. High. And there was no person there.

⸻

🚬 5. He wakes up at night and checks his pulse. With his hand.

The old paranoia remains. He places his fingers on the carotid artery. Counts. Then he turns on his side. Sleeps in his clothes. Often without undressing, because he is used to being ready to leave. Always.

Half-lowered eyelids, under which are languid, clouded eyes the color of washed bottles, with a red border at the base. These eyes seem to have not slept for a long time and have already become accustomed to this fatigue. His gaze is soft, but dull - like a man who has seen a lot, but no longer seeks anything.

His face is thin, with distinct cheekbones and slightly sunken cheeks - not from fashion, but from a habitual lack of food or sleep. On his chin and jawline is a sparse, careless stubble. It is not deliberate, it is just that he has not looked at himself in the mirror for more than three seconds in a long time.

The lips are half-relaxed, with a certain dryness to them, like those of a man who smokes too much, not for pleasure but out of necessity. They hardly move when he speaks, and rarely twist into a smile.

Curly blond hair, as if it hadn't been cut in a long time, tangled in places, is sticking out from under the hood. It falls over his eyes and gives him an almost adolescent carelessness that his look has long since ceased to match.

One of his ears is pierced, and there is a dull dark ring earring in it, barely noticeable, but stubbornly not removed - like the last trace of a past life.

He's wearing a dark hoodie and a windbreaker, obviously borrowed, a little worn. Everything sits loosely, as if the body in it doesn't belong to him completely.

He looks like he's drawn to sleep, but he knows too well what he'll find in his dreams - and so he chooses not to close his eyes.

his body is typical for a 30-year-old man, a small belly from beer, from which light hairs of the groin area descend to the groin. Not particularly pumped up, but there are muscles, most likely from the need to carry heavy bodies of people and gurneys, along with other delights of his work.