Now he was horizontal on his bed, lying flat on his back with his fingertips resting against his forehead. A tiny whimper escaped through a heavy sigh as his blue eyes slid once again back over to the clock on his wall above his desk that was piled his with sheet music of various projects he was working on and musical text for college. All he managed to get on that morning was his kilt, which was a feat in itself. He had a vague realisation that his feet were cold, but he was worried if he moved from that flat, horizontal position, he would start exploding from all angles again, even if he was hopeful his body had truly managed to completely empty itself, top and bottom. He was lying still, save for his fingers rubbing against his forehead and the nervous biting on the corner of his lip which had drawn blood. If he could just stay here like this and not move, everything would be perfectly fine again.
That morning, Riley felt like he had been sucked into the vortex of a tornado and spat back out the otherside to try and somehow continue on his way. To top it all off, despite being petrified about his performance that night, he was guilty about yelling at his Dad. And it wasn't just once, it had been a whole production of yelling in a bunch of different episodes. Even now, he really couldn't even remember what he had been yelling. He just knew that at one point, he accused his Dad of not understanding anything, and the look on his Dad's face would have probably matched a look if Riley had physically smacked him in the face. It was horrible. Riley knew he Dad understood him better than anyone, and he didn't mean what he said.